


Fade To Black

by theimpossibleimpala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned WIP, After Season Four, Alternate Future, Angst, Brother Feels, Cas is a special angel, Dean struggles with bisexuality, Dream universe, Driving, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lots of plot omg, M/M, Normal Universe, Sam Knows, Suicidal Thoughts, There are explanations and plot notes at the very end so you can understand my struggle, alternate past, and so you can know what was supposed to happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 70,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4760660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimpossibleimpala/pseuds/theimpossibleimpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean stopped the Apocalypse four months ago; Ruby is dead, Lucifer is in the cage, and Sam is demon-blood free. When suicide numbers sky-rocket, and ghosts begin appearing everywhere across the country, the brothers know that their work is not yet over. With Heaven at peace, and Hell eerily quiet as of late, Team Free Will investigates the possibilities of this new evil in the knowledge that there will be peace when they are done. As everything unfolds, the profound bond between Castiel and Dean becomes far more important as the balance of the universe steps onto their shoulders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And So It Begins...

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins...
> 
> This is my very first Fanfiction I've ever written, and any sort of kind-criticism is very much welcomed. I'll be doing my best to update once a week, generally on the weekends. Hope ya'll like it ;)
> 
> 9/8/15

"I don't understand that reference."  
Cas says plainly. Deans rolls his eyes, shaking his head, of course the angel doesn't understand, he doesn't know why he keeps quoting from movies if only to be met with confusion. 

 

"Never mind, Cas." Dean turns towards his brother, who is sitting at a rickety wooden table, his silver laptop opened as it has been for the past few hours, "Anything?" He asks Sam, sitting down in the other chair. Cas simply stands where he has been since he arrived a few minutes ago. 

 

"Nothing." Sam says, sighing a bit, "There's been a few sightings in Colorado about some weird ghosts, but it's not involved with any deaths or disappearances. Not to mention, all the ghosts are different," Dean rests his forearms atop some newspapers, "A lady saw her younger sister trying to talk to her even though the girl had died when they were little, and a few kids saw their old dog in their yard– who got run over by a car last week."

 

"How'd this make it into the papers?" Deans wonders, unimpressed with the stories. 

 

"They didn't," Sam explains, "I found this on a ghost-conspiracy website."

 

"So basically this is just a bunch of bull." 

 

"Basically."

 

"Well," Dean claps his hands together, looking over at Cas, "Why're you here Cas?" The angel rarely came by lately–or ever–and he often didn't unless something bad had happened or he discovered information the Winchester brothers needed. 

 

The angel blinks, his body stiff as ever, "My presence isn't needed in Heaven currently so I thought I could offer my services to you both instead."

 

Dean gets up, then says as he's passing to the kitchen, "We're in between cases, but you can hang around if you want." Dean opens two bottles of beer, bringing one back for Sam. 

 

Castiel still hasn't moved. Dean shoots him a look, and Cas slowly goes to settle down on the edge of a motel bed, looking slightly confused about something. 

They all sit like this for some time, Sam scanning the Internet for supernatural activity, and Dean leafing through a stack of papers. He finds himself eyeballing a hamburger in a grocery store ad. Castiel has his hands resting on his legs, his concentration seemingly on a painting above the boxy television. 

 

"I'm gonna go out." Dean announces, his stomach grumbling, "You comin?" He looks at Sam. 

"Nah, I'm alright here. Bring me back some food though, will you?"

 

"If I come back tonight, sure." This makes the younger brother glance up, somewhat surprised, it has been some time since Dean 'got it on' with anyone. He clears his throat, "Uh, okay, I can find something if I need I guess."

 

Dean grins a bit before grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. 

 

"Dean." A deep voice stops him from turning the handle. "May I accompany you on your outing?" 

 

Dean's eyebrows raise as Cas stands up and take a few steps closer to him. "I would like to try and become more comfortable with human interaction."

 

"Ah... I mean," Dean gives his hand wave trying to relay his surprise. Castiel keeps his presence to regular people limited and brief, as though he were fearful of catching a sickness. The only humans he ever spoke to, more or less, was Sam and Dean. And while their laid-back comments and sarcastic manners had affected him some, he undeniably stood out as odd, and...inhuman. Cas had always refused to go to bars and restaurants in the past, why would he want to now? "Sure, but you might need to find your own way home." The hunter warns. 

 

"I think I can find my way back to this motel if that is what you mean, unless you are referring to Heaven, which I can also return to without any problems."

 

"Okay, well, c'mon then."

Dean unlocks the door to his gorgeous, '67 Impala, the black paint job is waxed and clean, and the freshly polished chrome is shining in the light from street lamps proudly. Sam and Dean had been holed up here the past several days with no job to do, so he took it as an opportunity to give his beautiful ride a deep-cleaning. Dean privately wants Cas to complement the car, but he knows that the angel isn't appreciative of something like this. Dean starts the ignition, before noticing Castiel isn't in the passenger seat beside him, and that another car door hadn't yet been opened. He reopens his door, and steps out. He thinks that perhaps there was an SOS on angel radar and Cas had to beat it, or maybe he decided he didn't want to come. Dean hears scrabbling a few cars away, he walks that direction, peering in the spaces between them. It's only eight at night, but it's fully dark. Crickets are even chirping in the distance. 

 

"Cas?" He asks the parking lot around him. Something dark shifts then, just underneath a car. He squints at the shape, reaching a hand to his waistband for a gun before he remembers he didn't put one on him, and that it's sitting in the glove compartment. He hadn't been anticipating any trouble. So instead he grabs a short, but wicked sharp silver dagger out of an inside pocket of his coat. A yowling cuts through the air as a black cat flies out from its hiding place, another one of the mangy animals follows just as quickly, chasing the other. 

 

"Jesus Christ." Dean huffs, leaping backwards a few feet, before becoming embarrassed at being frightened so easily by some scruffy cats. Luckily, no one was there to witness it. 

 

"Dean." 

 

"Dammit," Dean mutters to himself before turning around. "Cas? What the hell– where'd you go?"

 

"I didn't go anywhere, I was in the car, and when I heard the yell I came to see if you were okay."

 

"I'm fine. It was just some stupid cats."

 

"Cats aren't stupid, Dean. Although, it is true that many other animals are more observant and problem-solving than felines."

 

"Whatever. Let's just go." Dean grumbles. Cas disappears just as they get to the Impala. He can't be serious, where did the damn angel go?

 

"I'm in the car, Dean." Startled a bit, Dean looks down into the backseat, and sure enough, there Cas is, staring back. He chose to sit right in the centre, so he could see between the two front seats. 

 

"Why're you back there?" Dean questions once he's begun pulling out of his parking space. 

 

"This is my seat. Seeing as you and Sam are usually up front, I assumed I should be where I normally am."

 

"Yeah but he's not here right now, is he?"

 

"No, he is not." Cas confirms. 

 

"So then don't you think it's weird that you sit in the back when there's a perfectly good passenger seat right here?" Dean gestures to his right. 

 

"I don't see how it makes a difference. We are both going to arrive in the same place no matter where I am in the vehicle."

 

"That's not the point."

 

"I don't understand." Castiel's eyebrows are pushed together when Dean checks the rear view mirror. Dean is constantly amused by how alien this world is to Cas, and how alien Cas is to this world. He wonders if the dark haired angel will ever blend in. But, no, Dean doesn't think Cas'd be the same without the social-obliviousness, and it is awfully entertaining when it's not screwing up investigations. 

 

"Just sit up here next time the seats open, 'kay Cas?"

 

And just like that, Castiel is beside Dean, air breezes over him from the angel's wings. 

 

"Better." He tells Cas, whose blue eyes are watching the distance. The hunter lets himself watch the other man for a moment, before needing to park outside the bar he'd been going to lately. 

 

They step inside the dark building, Dean's hand on Cas's shoulder as he pushes him through the door first. He can feel the muscles in his back tense as the sounds of chatter and clanging glasses washes over them. The place is very brown, it's the first thing Dean notices every time. The floor is wood, the bar also wood, the weird booths lined up against the walls have brown padding and the walls are painted so dark it can come off as black. Immediately Dean spots a brunette rummaging in her purse at the bar. He removes his hand from Cas, having forgot it was there, and points at a table for his friend to sit at. Castiel does so, and uneasily slides down, observing the room and awkwardly keeping his posture perfectly straight, his arms down with his hands under the table. 

Dean goes up to the bartender, purposely standing beside the brunette as he orders. Waiting for his and Cas's drink, he glances over at her, casually leaning back on the counter. She has a sharp jawline and nose, with lips a deep, lipstick red. Her shirt reveals an attractive amount of cleavage, but Dean does his best not to look too long before speaking up to her as she scrolls through something on her phone. 

 

"Hey." Briefly she looks up at hearing his voice, he gives a broad, toothy grin.

 

"Just a sec." She holds up a finger, "Yeah? Oh hey–" She pauses, surveying him, "I saw you in here the other day."

 

"I'm not a face to forget easily." Dean comments, "I'm Dean."

 

"Violet," She offers, returning a smile. Her dark eyes run along his form from top to bottom, twice, and then gives him a particularly devilish grin. "I ordered another drink already, but when I finish it—"

 

"Wanna get out of here?" Dean finishes for her. Glad she was happy to cut to the chase. 

 

"Yeah, my place." She says, her lips closing before she leans in close to him. He can smell perfume and conditioner, and a tart whiff of alcohol. He's unsure if she's going to kiss him, but he leaves that option open and doesn't move neither backward nor forward. 

 

"Sir, your drinks." The bartender says firmly, disrupting the moment. 

 

"Hm? Oh," Dean collects himself and fishes out a ten to pay his tab right then. He picks up the two pint glasses of beer before directing his attention back to Violet, "I'll be over there, when you're ready."

 

He doesn't wait for an answer before going back to Cas.  
"Here." Dean says putting one of the glasses in front of him. 

 

"I do not need a beverage Dean, thank you, however."

 

"Just take a sip, man, loosen it up, ya' know?"

 

"I– What needs loosening?"

 

"You! Relax, enjoy yourself, stop sitting like that."

 

Cas gives him a thoroughly confused look. "What's wrong with the way I am sitting?"

 

"It's all," Dean begins to mimic Cas's position, "Rigid, and hard. Like, lay back a bit, put your arms on the table. Don't be so... Stiff."

 

Wearily, Cas lets his back slouch on the cushioned chair, and places his arms on the table, the beer resting between his fingers, just like Dean. 

 

"Better. Isn't that more comfortable?"

 

"My physical form is at more ease this way."

 

Dean nods his approval, drinking a few gulps while looking around the bar. 

 

"What were you speaking with that woman about?" Cas asks. 

 

"Uh," Deans begins, of course Castiel wouldn't understand the concept of a one-night-stand. "I... We're going to her house after she finishes her drink."

 

"What for? Do you believe she has information?"

 

"What? No - no Cas. It's—" He tries to think of a way to explain to the angel without being blunt, but he is sure that no matter the euphemism, that Cas wouldn't get it. "We're gonna, uh, make love."

 

Cas's expression seems to become more confused. "Do you mean sexual intercourse, Dean?"

 

"Yes, yes, that's what I mean." Dean tone is exasperated and he lowers his beer level to half a glass. 

 

"But you have just met her."

 

"Yes."

 

"Shouldn't you be in love before you make love?" Dean knows the celestial man is simply attempting to grasp the situation, and that he won't stop asking questions, so Dean decides to just answer and continue this ridiculous conversation. 

 

"You don't have to be, Cas. It's about more than that."

 

"More than love? But isn't– isn't that what all humans say is the most important thing to have? Love?" Cas is taking the whole thing very seriously, and hasn't touched his drink. 

 

"Take a gulp of that goodness and I'll keep talking."

 

"I do not see how me consuming alcohol will persuade you to answer."

 

"Cas." Dean says, with a look.  
Reluctantly, the angel sniffs the substance, he then slowly raises the glass so the liquid floods into his mouth. He puts it down again, he raises his eyebrows, his puzzled expression becoming more curious and amused. He downs the rest of the beer. 

 

Dean stares, agape at him.  
"Whoa."

 

"It is... Interesting." Cas glances almost sadly at his empty cup. "May I have some of yours Dean? I think I see why you enjoy this drink so much."

 

"Uh, sure." Dean takes the empty cup and pours half of his own beer in it for Cas, sliding it back over to him.  
Cas takes a more gentle sip, his hard-line of a mouth softening up. 

 

"Thank you Dean." He gives what is almost a close-lipped smile to Dean. And Dean can't help but laugh. Just one glass of beer and Cas seems on his way to being drunk.  
"I do believe I heard a saying once," Castiel ponders looking up at the ceiling, "By the human Benjamin Franklin. He said that 'Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.' I didn't understand what he meant, how something so wonderful could come in a bottle," He inspects his remaining golden liquid before swallowing it, "But I believe I am beginning to see it." Cas adds more seriously. 

 

Deans smiles, shaking his head, "Don't get too hammered, you gotta get home by yourself, remember?"

 

"I do."

 

" 'Kay, I'm gonna give you ten bucks, and I need you to buy a sandwich for Sam at the Grab-n-Go on the corner by the motel. Can you handle that?" Deans holds the bill between two fingers. 

 

"Yes, Dean. You can trust me. I will not let your brother go hungry." Already the initial fuzzing and warm sensation of the beer is wearing off of Castiel, and a grim face replaces his momentary half-smile.

 

"Here," Cas takes hold of one end of the ten dollars and Dean is about to let go when he hesitates, "Tell me first."

 

"Tell you what first?" 

 

"Whatever's going on with you, with Heaven." Dean puts his other hand over the top of Cas's hand on the table to make his point, "Whenever anything happens, tell me first. Sam's been different since... Since the demon blood. And... He's–he is getting better, but I'm afraid..."

 

"Afraid of what?"

 

"That he thinks he's stronger than he actually is. And that, the blood messed with his head more than I can see. I don't want him thinking he can save the day when something goes wrong."  
Dean had been meaning to tell Cas this for a while now, but they hadn't had a moment alone in his past few visits. 

 

"I promise." Cas assures Dean, taking the money and putting it into his pocket. Dean nods and gives his hand a single pat, and it suddenly feels very cold without Dean warming it. 

Violet saunters over to the table, all about Dean. "Ya' ready?"

 

He looks up and smiles, he sure the hell is ready.  
"Bye Cas." He stands, gives the table a knock or two, watching Castiel as his eyes flicker to the girl and him.  
"Good bye." Cas's voice grunts. 

Castiel stands hesitantly outside the Grab-n-Go convenience store. The red and yellow neon sign is a glow besides the 'b' which looks smashed. His trench coat flutters in the chilly breeze, and he steps into the shop. The young man behind the counter ignores Cas completely as he reads a magazine. Castiel walks down the first aisle, the shelves are all short, so he can see across the store. Against the back wall are refrigerators with rows of beer in them, but there is one at the far end with food in it. Cas carefully goes over to it, reading the labels of the plastic-wrapped sandwiches.  
Pastrami and Rye, Ham and Cheese on White Bread, Chef's Best (with bacon), and a few others. Cas knows Sam enjoys bacon, so he picks that sandwich, and inspects a metal rack of chips. His focus is on the ingredients, all of them have strange 5-syllable components besides one that has only potatoes, oil, and salt. He takes that and the 6-inch sub up to pay, unfolding the crumpled money Dean gave him and setting it on the counter. 

 

The magazine boy is clearly aware of him there, but doesn't move to help Cas check out. Castiel doesn't mind though, he can be patient as the boy presumably finishes his page. Several minutes pass before Cas decides to say something. 

 

"I could-uh-use some assistance in purchasing these items please."

 

"Fine." The boy gives an angry seeming sigh, closing his paper, and roughly takes the money and slamming it into the cash register drawer. He types out a few numbers and the total comes up in a small black screen above the register. $7.98 it reads. 

 

"Wanna bag?" He asks snatching up Cas's change and handing it to him. Cas slides the two penny's and dollars into his pocket before answering. 

 

"No, that is alright. I can carry my things just fine."

 

"Awesome." The boy mumbles before stumbling back to his stool.  
The angel gives him a concerned look, and then grabs Sam's food. He waits until he has stepped outside to fly off to the motel. 

 

"Hey Cas, did Dean take off with someone for the night?" The younger Winchester yawns when Cas arrives. 

"Yes, he went to make love with a girl."  
Sam gives him face,"Right... How did you like it? The bar I mean."

 

"It was a learning experience. I drank a glass and a half of beer."

 

"Did you?" Sam stretches his arms, shutting his computer down. 

 

"Yes. It was strange, but enjoyable. Is it common-" Cas wonders aloud, "To feel a warm sensation in your stomach when consuming alcohol?"

"Yeah, that's pretty normal, Cas." Sam chuckles, running his fingers through his chin-length hair. 

 

"I have some food for you." Castiel remembers pulling the perishables from his deep, inside-pockets of the coat. "I wasn't sure what you like but I know that you like bacon and natural ingredients."

 

"Ha, thanks." Sam stands up and takes the chips and sandwich, going to the small kitchen area of the motel room for a paper plate. He pours out the potato crisps and unwraps the sub, throwing away the trash in a bin. 

 

"I should go." The angel states just as Sam has settled down on a bed, turning on the television. 

 

"Okay, uh, when will you be back?" 

"Tomorrow. When Dean returns."

 

And then Castiel is gone.

 

The 10 o'clock news comes on, the anchors' chatting about the disappearance of a few thousand dollars in a local bank. Sam finishes his meal, putting his plate aside and pulling a pillow to his chest, closing his eyes. Normally with Dean here they'd be up late into the night, scanning the web or discussing the past, which consistently ended in arguments. 

 

Two years ago, Sam had met Ruby. Well, they'd known her before, but she came back, a new body, and most importantly a new agenda. She did her best to get on the brothers side, but Dean wasn't buying any of what she was selling. Sam was willing to listen. She had information, about Lilith and the plan to raise Lucifer from Hell. And she'd taught Sam to embrace the blood running through his veins, and to see it as a virtue, not a curse. She gave him her blood to drink, Ruby brainwashed him, it was like Sam couldn't see what was wrong and right anymore. Nothing made sense, but Ruby made it. He thought it was all for the sake of stopping Lilith. He could exercise demons with an incantation and he embraced the ability of telekinesis– to slam creatures against walls without touching them. The demon blood had changed him into something barely human. 

 

Dean had killed Ruby. If he'd showed up a moment later the Devil would be out of his cage, walking the earth. Castiel said nothing could fix Sam besides time, and himself. As Sam dried out of the demon blood, locked in the panic room at Bobby's house, while the demon in him faded, the memories did not. Of blood. Of the insanity and confusion, the betraying if his brother, and the killing of innocent people. 

 

"This just in – a 29 year old woman from Arvada Colorado has just taken her life from the top of the Republic Plaza in Downtown Denver." Sam sits up quickly from his dozing. The woman he'd read about today, the one who had been seeing her dead sister, is, or was, 29 and from Arvada.  
"A note was left on top of building, along with a backpack full of photo albums. It mentioned being haunted by the sins of her past, and that she couldn't take her sister's torment anymore."

 

Footage is shown of an ambulance outside the skyscraper, and a body covered in a white sheet as it rolls into the vehicle. 

 

Another man speaks instead of the woman, "What's interesting though is that she didn't have a sister."

The anchor lady doesn't think that's important, and finishes with her spiel.  
"Her identity is being withheld from the public, but we send our deepest condolences to the family."

 

Immediately, Sam leaps up and grabs his laptop, pulling it onto the bed. The lights are off in the room, and the screen blinds him a bit. He pulls up the Denver news, and searches for where the body of the girl was taken. She was brought to St. Luke's Medical Center for her autopsy, and will be transferred to the Denver City Coroner's Office for a certification of the death and to be cremated or prepared for burial in two days.  
Sam goes back to the bookmarked page about ghost conspiracy to find her name, she had submitted her article anonymously but he traces it back to an email and finds her name to be Lindy Wellpet. 

 

Two weeks after claiming to be seeing a ghost she takes her life, it isn't definitely a case, but it is the closest thing to a lead they've had in days and they've gone after less before.  
Feeling accomplished, Sam shuts the TV off and climbs into bed.

 

"Sammy!" Dean calls loudly as he unlocks the door at 8am. "Did I wake ya'?" Dean chuckles. Sam sits up, his hair a mess, and groans. 

 

"Yeah, Dean. Be a little louder next time won't you?"

 

"No problemo." The elder brother goes to the mini fridge, taking out a leftover container and french fries and cramming a handful into his mouth. 

 

"Those have been in there for three days. They gotta taste like crap."

 

"They do," Dean assures him through a mouthful, "But I never got a chance to eat last night and I'm starving."

 

"Well, I got good news." Sam mentions, getting out of bed and going into the small bathroom to wash his face. 

 

"Oh yeah?"

 

"That girl from Colorado who was seeing her sister?"

 

"The lame-o ghost thing, yeah?"

 

"Well, she killed herself last night. Pitched herself off a 56-story building."

 

"And how does that make it our thing?" Dean skeptically asked, finishing up the fries and throwing the styrofoam box into a trash bin. 

 

"She left a note, mentioning her sister. But the newscasters said she didn't have one." Sam comes out of the bathroom, opening his bag sitting at the foot of his bed. 

 

"And?" 

 

"And..." Sam sighed, throwing on some jeans and a shirt, "I don't know Dean. We might as well check it out. I'm tired of being in this motel."

 

"We coulda gone back to the bunker, but you said "Noooo, we gotta stay on the job"–didn't ya Sammy?" Dean mocks, still annoyed by Sam's outright refusal to go back home. His brother just shakes his head. 

"Fine, well let's get going then."

 

Sam agrees, and starts packing up all the weapons and books littered across the room. Dean goes to check out at the front desk and pulls the Impala around so it's closer. Ten minutes later the trunk is shut and Sam's in the passenger seat. 

 

"Did Cas make it home last night?"

 

"Yeah, yeah. Brought me a sandwich."

 

"Where's he now?"

 

Sam shrugs, "Heaven? Maybe? He didn't say."

"Ya know the guy was almost drunk after one beer last night?"

 

Sam smiles, amused. "Wouldn't surprise me. He seemed fine when he got back though."

 

"That's good." Dean mumbles.

 

"Good, why? Weren't you trying get him to go over the edge?"

 

"No!" Dean sets Sam straight, "I was just trying to get him to chill out. Be more... Normal."

"You know he's an angel right? Not some awkward highschool geek who's never been to a party in their life and can become all loony and go-lucky with a few shots." Sam says jokingly. 

 

"Personally," Dean directs at Sam, almost in a serious tone, "I like the awkward. He wouldn't be Cas without it."

 

Sam study's his brothers face, searching for...something, though he's not sure what. "Yeah–" Sam agrees at last, "He wouldn't be Cas."


	2. Relit in Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean take a trip to Denver to look into the recent suicide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank's to those of ya'll giving the second chapter a chance! Follow me on Instagram @poughkeepsie_angel or on Tumblr @thelaurawolf if you want ;)

"I'm agent Marley and this is my partner agent Jovi." Dean flashes his badge and Sam does the same. "We're here to investigate the death of Lindy Willpet."

The morgue attendant gives them both a look of doubt.  
"Why would the FBI be interested in a suicide?" The man checks his clipboard.

"Agent Jovi, I'll let you take this." Dean offers, not wanting to come up with an excuse. Sam glares at Dean but speaks up.

"We have reason to suspect that her death wasn't voluntary."

"Really? Ha," The attendant seems incredulous, "You think she was blackmailed? Or - no – don't tell me you're here on some x-files case?"  
The brothers eyes meet briefly.

"Why? What have you heard?" Dean questions.

"You're serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"Fine. Well," The man sighs, "It's all just rumours. Nothing special. But they say the lady was seeing a ghost before she went. And last month? A man in Colorado Springs was admitted to a mental hospital 'cus he claimed to being seeing phantoms everywhere. Next thing you hear, the dude is dead. Overdose of his crazy-meds."

"Afterwards, were there any reports of other people seeing the same ghosts? Any other nearby deaths – that maybe weren't suicides?" Sam inquires, gesturing with his hands.

"You two really believe all this?"

"We have to take everything into consideration."

The attendant stares for a solid thirty seconds.  
"Uh huh. C'mon." He waves his clipboard and the brothers follow him through a door into the morgue. It's colder in here. A concrete floor, glaring, sterile lights, and walls with the refrigerated body-drawers.  
"– And no mysterious deaths involving a ghost or whatever around the same time." The bearded man continues, sliding open one of the drawers, and holding his board between his knees as he unzips the heavy-duty bag.

"Do you have a copy of the autopsy info?" Dean asks as the man turns to leave.

"Here," And he yanks a chunk of papers from below the metal clip. He goes out of the room, and the false agents are left alone with a corpse.

"You check the body, I got the report." Dean volunteers.

"Great. Thanks."

"No problemo, Sammy."

Dean scans the pages for something, anything, that could suggest why the girl killed herself. There are no traces of any sort of unnatural substances in her system. No drugs, not even a lick of alcohol. Her previous medical records show nothing of remark. They'd never been given any sort of medication or had a mental illness. Sam tells Dean that there are no puncture marks or skin colouring anywhere.

 

"I've got jack-squat."

"Me too."

"I guess... We should check on the parents and the roommate she lived with."

"You got the addresses and names on there?" Sam gets out a small black booklet from his pocket that he keeps notes in.

"Yeah," Dean reads them out.

"I'll take Ms. Taylor Fern." Dean grins.

"Dude, really? Her roommate just died you can't go hit on her."

"I won't. I'll keep it strictly business." Sam's brother pulls a stern expression.

"Fine. Whatever. But I get the Impala."

"Uh uh, no way. I get my baby. You can get a cab."

Dean's on his way out the morgue door, Sam trailing shortly behind.

"You're impossible."

"I'm full of possibiles, Sammy. This just isn't one of the possibles."  
Dean approaches the attendant whose back behind his desk.  
"Thanks. And, uh, if you hear anything else out of the ordinary, just give me a ring at this number."

The man accepts the business card, taking back the autopsy papers.  
"Bye." He grumbles.

The siblings leave. One heading for the sleek and shiny Impala and the other begrudgingly walking to the Main Street a block or two away, and hailing a taxi. At least they're in the city, otherwise it'd be impossible to have gotten one. It's strange being here, surrounded by glass skyscrapers and industrial buildings. So many pedestrians and cars and people in general. All going about their days, in suits and skirts. Beggars on street corners, dark trash-filled alleyways. Sam and Dean usually are in cases in small towns, in the suburbs, big areas like this are complicated and it's difficult to get around and find people. But Sam enjoys it – witnessing the rush of every-day lives.

Just as Sam exits the parent's house, his phone rings. "Yeah?"

"So Taylor isn't a girl."

"Still flirt with them though?" Sam teases.

"Thought about it." Dean begins sarcastically, his stomach filling with rocks because Taylor had, in fact, flirted with him, "No! – What do you think?"

"I think you should branch out more." Sam suggests, getting into the cab he'd asked to wait for him.

"I hope you're kidding."

"You never know 'till you try Dean."

"Where to?" The driver says to Sam.

 

"Just a sec-" Sam then asks Dean, "Where do you wanna meet?"

"How about you hit the gay bar since you're so keen on exploration." His brother says sardonically.

"How about the Red Rooster Diner? It was across the street from the hospital."

"Sure."

" 'Kay, gotta go. See you in a minute." Sam hangs up, tells the driver directions, and looks through his notebook.

— _In the suicide note:_  
 _"I know that what happened to my sister was my fault. I know that her death was my doing. And she is angry-so angry- but she says she'll forgive me if I die. I can't stand the thought of her hating me. And her constant reminders torment me. She was so young. I took her whole life from her. I killed her. She tells me that again and again and again and how could I have ever thought it wasn't my fault? I can't live with this guilt. I must go." —_

The parents explained that the sister, Lucy, had died at age five when Lindy was ten. She'd been on a swing in the park and her sister kept pushing her faster and higher, Lucy told her to stop but she didn't, and Lucy went flying off hitting her head on the concrete and dying instantly.  
Lindy had accepted it as fate a long time ago, and it was strange that just now she was suddenly haunted by the memory–according to her parents.

When Sam got to the diner he chose a booth with a window view, he didn't have his laptop, so he just ordered some black coffee and waited for Dean to arrive. Several minutes later the black car drives into a parking space across the street, and Dean in a black suit gets out and locks the vehicle. Bells jangle when he enters the restaurant.

"Hey."

"Hey." Sam says second.

"Coffee, and you got any sausages?"  
Dean orders from the waitress when she comes over.

"Yeah, our special is a chili cheese dog."

"Perfect."

The woman turns away, and Sam faces Dean.

"That's a disgusting combination."

"Food is food, it's all going to the same place."

Sam wrinkles his nose.

"So what'd you find?"

"Lindy did have a sister, but she died when they were kids." Sam tells Dean.

"How?"

"Flew off a swing – that Lindy was pushing."

"So what? Little sis' was pissed? Wanted revenge?"

"I guess. What'd you find?"

"Hold up –" Dean smiles, leaning back as his food and drink is put in front of him. "Hell yeah, look at that!" He says excitedly picking up the cheese and bean covered hotdog. He takes a ridiculously large bite, closing his eyes.

"C'mon Dean–"

"Shhh... Let me enjoy it."

Sam rolls his eyes.  
"Dude."

"Fine – fine." The elder Winchester swallows, "Taylor said that Lindy had been behaving really weird. She was talking to herself – like arguing – I think she was talking to the ghost. He said the house was feeling extra cold when she was around, and that he'd changed a lightbulb twice but it just kept flickering. "

"So, her sister was, maybe, brainwashing her? Tricking her into being guilty enough to die?" Sam tries to piece the story together.

"That's what it sounds like."

"But –" Sam taps the table a few times, "If the girl came back to kill her sister, and now Lindy is dead, does that mean Lucy's ghost is gone now?"

"Let's run an emf scan around her house."

"Okay, and we should try the top of the building she jumped off of too."

"As soon as I finish." Dean shoves in another huge mouthful, his cheeks bulging.

When he finishes, he downs his caffeine in one go, Sam pays, and they both get into the Impala. They drive to Lindy's house, Dean for the second time in one day. He knows what's gonna happen when Taylor opens the door and sees him again, but he makes sure to let Sam lead the way. Sam knocks, and Taylor opens the front door.

"How can I help you –" He then recognises Dean –"Oh hey Marley. Come on in guys." He gestures the agents in, "Marley, want anything to drink? Or you..."

"Agent Jovi." Sam supplies his name.

"Or you, Jovi?"

"We're all good." Dean says, ignoring the eye contact and closeness of Taylor.

"Well what do you need?"

"I was wondering, could I take a look around Lindy's room?" Sam asks casually.

"Sure, I guess. Marley already did that though."

"It's /agent/ Marley." Dean corrects curtly, both the other men ignoring him entirely.

"Okay thanks. You stay here." Sam says the last part to Dean. The elder brother is about to argue, but Sam is already halfway down the hall. Dean turns to Taylor, and the man grins.

"Was agent Jovi your excuse to come back and reconsider my offer?" Taylor is the same height as Dean, with loose, fluffy, dark blond hair and a clean-shaven jaw. Dean just shakes his head, and walks into the kitchen on the left. It's newly remodelled, shining silver appliances and clean tiled floor. A white-board calendar hangs magnetised to the refrigerator, and some empty mugs sit beside the sink. Taylor lingers in close range.

"You look tense. All this FBI work has got to be straining. Take a night for yourself –"

"Dude." Dean huffs, "I said no before, what makes you think I changed my mind?"

" 'Cus you came back." Taylor replys flirtatiously, "A movie? Dinner? Both? C'mon, just once. What's the harm?"

Dean is getting fed up, but he just continues to move his head negatively, leaning back on the island in the centre of the kitchen and crossing his arms.

"How about, not tonight? Maybe tomorrow, how long are –"

Dean stands up then, walking to Taylor huskily, "Hey alright, that's enough." The other man seems about to say something else, but Dean doesn't let him, "That's enough. I get that you-you-want to take me out or whatever. But –" He points to himself, "I don't swing that way. Got it?"

Dean brushes past roughly, scowling. But deep, deep, down – he feels oddly...guilty-for turning the guy down. But why hadn't he made his 'no' clearer? Instead of the wimpy and embarrassed 'nah' he'd given the guy previously? Why had he let Taylor keep hoping and asking if – if, he had known his answer the whole time? Dean couldn't have actually been considering it subconsciously – had he?

"Hey, everything okay? You look, uh, kinda weird Dean." Sam notices coming back to the front door.

"I – nothing. Nothing. Let's get out of here." Dean whispers urgently. Sam seems confused, but nods slowly.

"You find anything, agent Jovi?" Taylor says, pointedly excluding Dean from the conversation by stepping in between him and Sam.

"Oh, uh, no. Thank you though. Sorry to bother you again." Sam apologises as Dean opens the door and steps out.

"Oh no, it's quite alright. Not like I had any plans tonight anyway." His tone is irritated, and clearly meant for Dean, as he shuts the door behind the brothers. They get into the car.

"What was all that about?" Sam inquires as Dean starts to drive off.

"He got turned down for a date and was complaining about it." Dean grumbles.

"Why did it sound like you were the one who he asked?"

Dean attempts to look calm when glancing at his brother. But Sam knows that face, it's his /yes you're right but I'm gonna pretend you're not/ face.

"I don't know Sammy. Now let's check this last place, then I wanna get a skanky hotel room, and drink a dozen beers."

An hour later, the two check into the Sun-Up Motel, they luck out and get a second-floor room with a balcony. Entering it, it's instantly the nicest place they've stayed in ages. The floor is wood, but a carpet wrests on the ground beside a cushy couch and flatscreen television. The two beds are some distance away from one another, and there are curtains covering the sliding glass doors to the deck. Dean drops both his bags, kicking his shiny black shoes off and removing his suit-jacket. The other brother brings in a grocery bag, holding a case of beer and some cold, pre-made burgers. Sam sets it down on the kitchen counter, and unloads the drinks into the fridge. Dean takes their hunting bag, and lays out all the weaponry and amo on the dining table. He takes into account that they need more salt rock shells before they can fight off a ghost.

After taking inventory Dean wanders out onto the 3' by 6' porch, leaning against the railing and looking below to the sidewalks and streets. He sips the glass of scotch in his hand, trying to not think about the case. Not to say he didn't want the job, hell, he had been begging for one, but he just wants a moment to relax. His head is pounding with a headache, one he's not sure how he got or why he deserves it. The alcohol helps numb it, but the throbbing is still noticeably there.

Castiel appears beside Dean, silently and invisibly. He's not sure why he doesn't appear at once, but he can't help but marvel at Dean. The wide, strong shoulders, muscles prominent in his white dress shirt. The man settles down on a plastic green chair, closing his eyes. Cas thinks about how he had promised yesterday to return this morning, but Heaven had been busy. Lots of things to sort out, angels to speak to. For a while, he considers speaking to Sam about his concerns, and about the investigation the brothers must be on since they came to Denver, but he finds himself taking Dean's place by resting on the railing, he looks up at the sky, the sun is sinking, and the clouds are reflecting orange and pink and purple. It's beautiful. The angel often finds human sentiment difficult to understand, but this - their attachment and admiration of a sunset - Cas could feel too. The unmistakable awe of seeing a sky normally do dull, washed through with incredible colours.

"Cas?" A gravelly voice says quietly –and tiredly – Castiel notes. He hadn't realised he'd revealed himself.

"Hello, Dean."

"What's going on?" The hunter stands up.

"I was watching the sun."

"Oh." Dean takes a drink, joining Cas to watch the sky.

"Where does the sun go when it disappears?" Castiel asks, curious about something.

"To the other side of the planet?" Dean replies, thinking that Cas should know this. Their shoulders are touching, and Dean gestures to Cas with his beverage.

"I'd rather not." Cas turns down the drink. "It looks like the sun is swallowed by the ocean. And the water puts it out, leaving the world dark. The stars," Cas takes a breath, seeming strangely nostalgic, "are the only trace left behind. And then it passes deep below, relighting in the fires of Hell, and rising once more to create a new day. In a never-ending cycle; the sun brings delight and warmth to all these humans, only to be killed again and again in the sea for their sakes. Do you think they appreciate it?"

It takes a minute for Dean to realise it wasn't a rhetorical question. "Uh, I think that people don't think about it that hard." He half-heartedly says, "And I am also pretty sure the sun isn't sentient – or getting turned off or going through Hell at night for that matter."

"I know, but –" The man pauses, and Dean turns his gaze from the buildings across the street to him. And Cas notices, returning the look. His eyes are so blue, Dean finds himself thinking.

"I suppose I would like to think that something sacrifices more than you and Sam do to help this place."

The angel has straightened up, and Dean wearily does the same. Not sure how to respond to what Cas said. He clears his throat, throwing back the rest of his scotch, it doesn't escape him that Cas hasn't stopped watching him, that Cas is staring at him with concern and worry, and... Maybe a tad bit of confusion and something else.

"Do you have a headache?"

"Yeah, uh, yeah I do. How could you tell?" Dean says, surprised.

"I could sense pain from you."

"You can do that?"

"Yes." Castiel confirms as though it's obvious.

"I get being able to sense me getting stabbed or something, but a tiny headache?"

"It's only because I'm right beside you. If I were farther away your pain would need to be much greater for me to feel it." Cas explains.

Dean nods, about to go back inside. Sam hasn't seen that Cas is here, the curtains are blocking the view.

"Would you like me to heal you?"

Dean blinks.  
"Could you do that?"

"Of course. I can heal wounds that could kill you, I can certainly cure a single headache."

Dean nods again, stepping closer to the angel. Castiel slowly moves his hands up to put two fingers on either of Dean's temples. The sensation that courses through Dean is electric as the other man pushes his hands forward farther, opening all his fingers so they run through Dean's short hair; Cas's palms now on Dean's temples instead. The fire spreads from Castiel's fingertips and all the way down to Dean's own as they face each other in close proximity.

"Close your eyes Dean, I should be able to diminish some of the anxiety and tenseness in your body as well."

Dean's breath catches slightly as it hits him that the warmth he felt at first from Cas's touch wasn't him healing Dean. _Of course it was_ , he tells himself ignoring the fact he could still feel his head pounding. _Cas just fixed the headache first and then told me to close my eyes to cure the rest. Right? Right?_  And then a prickly-hot wave passes through his brain and over his shoulders and back. And he pushes the thought that springs to mind – far, far away; _Whatever that other thing I felt was, it wasn't him_ _healing me._ Cas releases him, gently, almost slowly.

"Is that better?" He checks. Dean turns away, grabbing for the door handle.

"I-um-Yes. Yes, a lot. Thanks." He stutters slightly. _God, I need a beer. Or more scotch. Or maybe I've had too much, and that's why I felt weird._

 

"Hey Cas, when did you get here?" Sam greets when he spots the angel.

"Not long ago."

"Great. We're kinda stuck with a tricky case now, you might be able help." Sam suggests from the couch. His feet are propped up on the coffee table, and his computer is on his lap.

"How can I be of service?" Cas takes one of the chairs from the table and puts it over by the couch so he's across from Sam. Dean does the same, after fetching beers for the group. Cas takes the one Dean hands to him hesitantly, but the fact that he takes it at all satisfies Dean plenty.

"Well, so this lady named Lindy gets haunted by the ghost of her sister, Lucy, whom she kinda accidentally got killed when they were kids, but then just yesterday night, she offs herself." Sam then directs at Dean, "Ya' know those kids who were seeing the ghost dog?"

"Yeah..."

"The younger one got hit by a car, 20 minutes ago, and said that he was chasing his dog."

"Holy crap."

"Yeah. And I found out what happened with the dog, he got run over by a car when the boy let him off his leash. Luckily, the kid's not dead though."

"So these were caused by ghosts?" Castiel confirms.

"But – dogs don't have ghosts right?" Dean checks, never having heard of such a thing before.

"It's very unlikely and very uncommon, however it is possible for animals to have ghosts. What doesn't sound right though is that the dog is seeking revenge, if pets do stay behind it is only because they feel obligated to still watch over and protect their human owners. To stay to kill, is unheard of." Cas fills the brothers in.

Dean and Sam are both surprised by this information, and Sam inquires further, "Can animals go to Heaven?"

"Of course." Castiel responds, "Their part of Heaven is similar to how a human's works. They can go to Hell also, though I'm not sure about the details."

The older Winchester runs a hand over his face, sighing. Great.  
"So... Someone has got be raising these spirits. Sam, did you look into what the morgue guy said about the dude in Colorado Springs?"

"Um, let me see..." Sam types on the keyboard for a few minutes, a finger quickly using the touchpad, clicking away. "Okay, so his name was Edward Melworth, his mental record beforehand was clean, but there's something about him in the local paper..." He trails off, reading, "His friend got shot by a gang, it sounds like Edward had been threatened a few times. He was a lawyer, guess he made some enemies on a drug case in 2003. Okay, so it says, 'In an attempt to call for help as Melworth was being attacked by the gang, Paul Ricario was shot. His wound was fatal, but authorities were already on the line and were able to trace the call and find Melworth before any further casualties could happen.' I bet you anything that his friend was who was haunting Ed." Sam finished.

"What are the connections between the suicide victims?" Cas asks.

"Nothing. Except they were seeing ghosts of people who they'd seen killed – and the ghosts seem to have disappeared once they got revenge."

"Ghosts of who they'd been somewhat at guilt for getting killed in the first place." Sam adds to Dean's words.

"Does anything link the ghosts?"

There's silence as the brothers look at each other and realise how obvious that should be. Something must link the ghosts, something that would mean they all rise at the same time.

Sam scrolls through pages and pages of useless information and photographs. He can't find anything on the dog, which is expected, but he quickly discovers none of them were cremated. Which, could mean all they need is a salt-and-burn. But this case is clearly something bigger. All the ghosts, had nothing in common. They had all worked in separate lines of business, different ages, from different places. The only thing connecting them was that they had returned to the mortal world instead of quietly staying at peace.

 

Castiel opens his beer bottle, it making a popping sound as the cap flies across the room. Dean chuckles, and Cas goes to find it. The two don't speak at all, they just watched Sam, and, in swift glances, each other.

"I've had a thought." Castiel disrupts the silence, knocking Dean to attention – as he'd been drifting off.

"Shoot." Dean pushes, finishing off his beer and setting the bottle on the floor. Sam ignores them both.

"Doesn't this remind you of when the Witnesses rose?"

"The who now?" Dean doesn't know what the angel is referencing.

"The Witnesses. Lilith cast a spell to make ghosts of people you and other hunters were supposed to have saved – return, and try to get revenge."

"Oh." Dean squeaks back his chair, getting a fresh drink and then coming back, "Right. Hendrickson. And... Meg. The human Meg."

"That wasn't the same thing though." Sam pipes in, "They were murdered by supernatural beings. All these guys were taken naturally– or as naturally as you can get at least."

"But Cas makes a good point." Dean takes the angel's side, "What if we did the same spell that–"

"Shit." Sam spits suddenly.

"What?" Sam's brother grimaces, bracing himself for something bad.

"I was looking at suicides in other states. And everywhere, everywhere, the numbers are increased by 20% in the last month in all the big cities." Dean and Cas lean in, waiting to hear the rest, them both frowning deeply, "In LA, 17 suicides. In New York City-12, Seattle-22, Salt Lake City-18..." Sam keeps listing numbers and places and the weight of what's occurring grows and grows until Dean can feel it crushing him. He can feel it suffocating him. All those people dying. And I hadn't noticed. None of them really wanted to end it, they had to. If only I'd seen the pattern. If only I could've stopped it. Too late. Too late for over a hundred and fifty people.

"All in the last month?" Cas's deep voice shakes Dean free of his mind, and he sees the angel staring at him. Cas can sense my guilt.

"Yeah." Sam breathes.

Castiel lets out a long, loud, sigh. He stands – walks around for a few moments – then faces the group again.

"We need to stop this."

"I know." Both the brothers agree simultaneously.


	3. Remember Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Dean sleeps, he recalls some terrible memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are NOT caught up on Supernatural, Charlie Bradbury is mentioned in this chapter however, none of it is cannonical so there's no spoilers! Promise. Also, this chapter starts off in a dream.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

 _"My name is Charlie – Charlie Bradbury!_  Please, please, I'm sorry! Let me go!"

"Dean, she's not one of them! She's not a shifter!" Sam snapped his phone off, the camera had served its purpose. He put it away, he held a gun in the other hand. Dean slowly released his forearm from the red-haired girl's collarbone, sweeping her with a skeptical and suspicious look, as though he didn't quite trust she wasn't some evil creature.

"Fine." Dean accepted, gradually lowering his blade from his fighting stance. "Why are you here then?"

"I –" She paused, straightened up, and swallowed. She seemed nervous. Which, considering she'd just gotten slammed against the wall by a complete – and rather intimidating – stranger, was a reasonable way to feel. "Something's wrong. I – I'm just an I.T. girl, but, uh, something's been going on here... And I just – just wanted to see what it was."

"Listen, Charlie," Sam began, putting his hands up to show he wouldn't hurt her, "That's why we're here, we want to help, can you tell us about what's been happening?"

"It...I..." She shook her head, looked down, and smiled a not happy smile, "I'm gonna sound crazy, it's gonna sound crazy. A week ago, all these people came here, here to Hiltner International, and..."

"And what?" Sam queried further.

"And then within a few hours they were gone. All of them – they had just disappeared. But everyone else, all the people I've worked with...It was like in that old movie...The Invasion of The Body Snatchers...They were all acting different. It was so weird, one second we're negotiating trades with China and the next they buy up a ton of stocks. Some people were normal still, some of my coworkers hadn't... Changed... So I thought maybe it was just me – 'Cus things like this don't happen! People don't just change overnight! I thought I was making it up! It can't be real. Right? At least – I thought it couldn't." She waved her arms around, looking between the brothers anxiously.

"What did you see, Charlie?" Sam asked, quietly. Dean backed up a few steps, to give the girl space to breathe and calm down. She wore a black hoodie, and gloves and dark pants. She must've snuck down here to find out what was really happening, and thought wearing black at night would increase her chances of not being caught.

"I saw... My manager – who, who I reported everything to, who told me what to do, he, uh, managed my whole floor and..." She rambled, fearful of speaking what she had seen.

"Get to the point, what did you see?" Dean insisted.

"He – he – he changed into my partner, into the another guy in I.T. It was terrible, it was... Disgusting, he ripped all of his skin off," She shuddered involuntarily, "I didn't believe what I was seeing, I thought, ya' know, all that binge-watching of the X-Files had finally caught up with me," Charlie laughed half-heartedly. "But I don't think that's what's happening...is it?"

"No. This is real. There are things here, that are gonna wreak havoc until they die. We can fix this. We can stop all those goddamn, sons of a bitches tonight, but we need your help Charlie." Dean spoke up.

"M-my help?" She stuttered, "I-I don't know. I don't know what's going on. I-can't do much to help, really, an d–" Charlie glanced around the room, "And I really don't want to get hurt."

"Charlie... If you didn't want to get involved in anything dangerous, then why did you come back here in the middle of the night?" Sam pointed out.

"A girl gets a wee-bit curious whenever she overhears someone saying to keep everyone out of the basement." She shrugs innocently, adrenaline rushing through her, excitement and fear building up in her chest,"So when you said shifter..." Charlie started, realising that she didn't have much of a choice then anyway, she might as well do what she could. The two men kept looking at each other, holding a private conversation. "...Do you mean shape-shifters?"

"Yes. Exactly. We caught wind of them, thought we'd take them down – thought we did – actually. But as it turned out that was only the tail of the snake," Dean gapped his sentence dramatically, "And now we've come for the head."

"You said basement right? Which is where?" Sam tried to stay with the mission, he suspected what was in the basement, and it was nothing good. If he could, he would try and stop the pale woman from seeing it. She'd already seen a lot, though she did appear to be holding up pretty well.

"Down there." Charlie pointed a gloved finger to a hallway on the opposite side of the room. Sam made to go that way, Dean about to follow – "Wait."

"Huh?" Dean raised his eyebrows.

"What are they – exactly? Are they human – at all?"

"Yeah. I mean, they're human, more or less. Have human drives – and in this case it's money and power from taking over a company like this – but they generate their own skin. They can shape it to match someone else's features – you know, taller, shorter, male, female, whatever who they're copying is like." Dean explained wearily, "But they aren't human enough. Not for me, not for this world. They kill some poor bastards, and take their place, take their life, and they get anything that they have ever needed or wanted that way." He growled, "And I – we – can't stand for that. We're gonna find a way to gank the whole fucking lot of them and save a hundred more people from being slaughtered!"

"Okay." Charlie whispers, startled by the outburst, "I didn't mean to start something. I just – I don't want anyone else whose innocent dying."

"They won't." The shorter brother said angrily, firmly, and without doubt. And then he turned, and stomped in the direction of the lower level, Sam cast Charlie an apologetic look, and then trailed Dean, telling Charlie to stay where she was.

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

Dean turns over in his sleep, his memories of Charlie sifting through his mind in his dreams.

Cas is there. He sits on the couch, leaning toward, elbows on his knees. He had told the brothers he was leaving earlier, which he had, but once the two were fast asleep he returned. To watch over them, and because he has nothing better to do.

His duty in Heaven – his task in the Elite Squad of Angels – is to to protect and conserve the millions upon millions of human souls. To keep their Heaven's untouched, untainted, and indestructible. To keep all those souls safe, at rest, and at peace. Castiel ranks near the top of his squad, and one of his jobs is to train new recruits. This had been his job for the past month, Angels he'd only seen in passing had been sent to him, he trained them – he knew how and what to do. But as the fresh soldiers filtered through, taking up places to guard Heaven, the other Angels, the Elite Squad whom he'd been with since the beginning – since he'd begun his own training, his own service – were leaving. They went to separate garrisons, to new groups, and before Cas knew it he was the only one left. The only original of the Elite Angels. And now here he is, abandoning his position for a few days to allow time for the recruits to learn their place, to learn in action. It's not back-breaking work, nor is it tiring or tasking, it simply asks a lot.

A lot of patience, a lot of time, and the endless flitting through thousands of different Heaven's. The Heaven's of thousands of humans. To stand in one spot, as though facing a gigantic open book, and watching the pages flip by. So many pages. Pages, upon pages, of dreams and wishes and desires – of happiness, and bliss, and thrills. Cas stands still, and as the lives pass over him, they also go through him, and he experiences all the memories and doubts and losses – that lead each and every person to having the sort of Heaven that they do. Every time he takes his place to search through them, looking for tears or gaps or imperfections – searching for pain or sadness or longing – and replenishing and healing all the lives. Filling them with adventures and exploration and love. It's Castiel's duty to create the Heaven's – not only to create them – but maintain them, along with the rest of the Elite.

The worst thing about it, is how human, it makes Cas feel. He's seen the other Elite, it doesn't seem to affect them – all the emotions and thoughts and yearnings of the human soul's – they don't seem to notice all the guilt and suffering and shame that lead a person to wanting what they do. Castiel hadn't always experienced his job this way, but something had changed him. Something had happened to Castiel that made him feel a little more than any normal Angel ever should.

And it scares Cas. Dear God, does it frighten him.

Sometime, a little over two years ago, when he had raised Dean up and out of Hell, from the second his hand lifted off of Dean's permanently hand-printed shoulder, his own soul, or his Grace, and his mind and heart had been transformed, ever so slightly. While a tiny piece of his Grace escaped into Dean – a tiny part of Dean's soul, as damaged and vulnerable as it was, snuck away and embedded itself into Castiel. They are connected. How permanently and how strongly the angel doesn't know, but that hardly matters.

Dean doesn't know about it. Castiel has never told him. He knows inside that the Winchester has every right to know the whereabouts and condition of his soul, but Cas constantly feels this fleeting fear when he considers admitting it to Dean. Cas knows why he hasn't said anything, he knows far too well. Having this part of Dean inside him, makes it so he can have his own ideas and opinions, that sometimes go against the Angel's. It makes it so he can stand up for what's right and not mindlessly follow orders. It makes it so he can be himself – be a little unique, and a little independent, amongst hundreds of siblings. This slice of humanity inside him, has brought him the most terrible sadness, but also the most powerful happiness. He has felt so many things, many and most of which are Dean's own emotions. And he enjoys it so much, to be more than just an Angel. To be human. It's addicting, it's a drug. Castiel has this sense, though, that if the human he shared a part of himself with was anyone but Dean, it wouldn't be the same. Dean's emotions and feelings and thoughts, they are all so pure, whether they be righteous or dishonourable it doesn't matter – with no exclusions – Dean's are beautiful. They are simple, handcrafted, and powerful. They are strong and fluttering and hesitant, sometimes they push extra hard, and other times the feelings are clamped down on, shunned away, and suppressed immensely. Castiel hates it when Dean does that, when the hunter denies himself the right to be sad or joyful or afraid. He should be able to be whatever he needs to be in the moment. If he wants to cry, to be sad, and mourn, he should. He shouldn't put up a determined front and lie to the world, just to seem indifferent. To seem invincible. Dean can play this game as long as he wants, but Castiel will always know the truth. But he'll keep his secret – keep Dean's secrets.

The angel looks to his left, to where Dean is resting a few feet away on his bed. One arm is falling off the comforter, his legs spread out and cheek against a pillow. His eyes are moving quickly beneath his lids, the human is dreaming. Castiel gets up, his body is tired. That's been happening too – his body that is – needing rest. He walks over to Dean, watching the man sleep. His breaths come in and out deeply, it's strange how the sound varies from his waking breaths. Sam snorts from his giant silhouette on the other bed, and Cas is startled mildly.

"You can't lie to me, Dean." He mumbles, resting his hand on Dean's head, just above his ear. The angel thinks that the human, looks at peace here. No worry lines, no scowling, no frustrated eyebrows. Dean is small and vulnerable, he looks soft and kind, like he could light up the entire world with just the smallest smile – and Cas thinks, that Dean does light up the world with his smile. Admiration – and another, unnameable something – rise up in his chest. One of the sensations is fluttering and warm, causing Castiel to smile.

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

 _Dean types faster and faster_ , clicking madly, the green and blue words and numbers scrolled on the laptop screen faster and faster, the clock ticked loudly in the room, Dean felt a gigantic wave of anger shoot through him as his vision filled with huge, blaring red letters, stating: ACCESS DENIED. He'd been at this all day, but the firewall was impossible to crack. Or at least, impossible for him. He shouted in frustration, slamming the laptop shut and it breaking in two. No - what?

And then there's Charlie, smiling with a messenger bag over one shoulder.

"Hi, Dean." He gestured her inside, locking the door after her. She sat down at the table in the centre of the room, whipping out her own computer and lifting the lid of Dean's next to hers, comparing the two. But hadn't his broken?

"So what's up? What you trying to crack?"

"Demon's email – that is really, really, well protected." Dean sat down too, suddenly sipping a beer in his hand.

"Oh? Why would a demon have an email?" Charlie questioned, and played with a Hermione Granger bobble head she certainly didn't have with her before.

"I know it's kinda this big group, separated into three parts. All to complete opposite sides of the world. They got to keep in contact somehow."

"You can't have complete opposites with three, Dean." She raised her brows, teasing him.

"They're getting something, from all those places, and they're meeting back up here in Salt Lake City, but I don't know what for."

"And they're all keeping in touch via email? Seems very domestic."

"I think they were trying to keep under my radar. 'Cus if they sliced somebody's throat open every time they needed to chat I woulda caught the trail a hell of a lot sooner. Luckily, caught a demon, interrogated it, and with a bit of persuasion it gave up what it knew. Which, wasn't much. But I do know what it's all working towards."

"What's that?" Charlie had begun typing away at Dean's computer, occasionally referencing her own. She was concentrating, grinning slightly, like she enjoyed the rush of hacking. Which, she did. A lot more than legally allowed for sure.

"Getting Lucifer out of his fucking cage."

"You mean –" Charlie halted abruptly. Her face going more white than normal, and her eyes widened, "The, uh, Lucifer.... Like, the Devil, Lucifer? That Lucifer?"

"Yep. That Lucifer."

"So where is Sam? I think he probably coulda done this, he's got some real hacking potential, very resourceful with this kinda thing. You aren't, however," She poked fun at him.

Dean saw then – Sam. Standing tall and dark in the corner of the room by the front door. His face was shadowed, but he cackled, laughed wildly, and madly. Ruby was by Charlie, whom Dean was barely aware of, and the dark-haired demon was sneering, flashing red eyes at Dean. She held her hand out to Sam, who eagerly came closer and took it, bent over her, and kissed her hard. The entire room vanished. Instead the two Winchesters and Ruby stood on a hilly terrain, it was early morning. Birds were twittering, a tree line and barn in the distance. Dean himself gazed at his brother and the demon. He teleported to Sam somehow, then he held Sam by his white, expertly tailored, collared shirt.

"Stop this Sammy! Leave the fucking demon whore and get the hell to Bobby's! You can't do this! It's time to dry out."

Sam did nothing but snarl, shoving Dean to the ground, he blinked, and his eyes were black.

And then all at once, Dean was back before Charlie.

"I hit it! The jackpot, I mean!" Dean jerked his head up to Charlie, what had happened with Sam skirting around the edge of his thoughts. Sam and Ruby were nowhere in sight, thank God. His brother had left. Dean had given Sam an ultimatum, stay, give up the fucking demon blood, and get better. Or – walk out that door and never come back. Dean had been lying on the ground, hurt and bruised and bleeding. And Sam had stared, doing nothing to help, and he'd walked out the door. He fucking left Dean to be a psychotic junkie that got his kicks vampire-style.

"So it sounds like they're getting some people, from all these places. Thailand, Alaska, and Germany. Umm..." She read in a bit, and shared the important bits, "They have to have three, good and holy people, from entirely different backgrounds. And they must voluntarily sacrifice themselves...."

"So we're looking at some kinda spell?"

"Oh! Crap, this emails from yesterday. It says, uh, they're bringing whoever from Alaska back tonight – That's the last person they need, the others are already here – To the Western Enterprises building. It's..." She searched something, "It's an abandoned warehouse."

"If course it is." Dean comments blandly.

"Oh. I know why they chose this City."

"Why?"

"Whatever they're trying to do, requires a lake, a massive one."

"So the Salt Lake then?"

"Uh huh. And..." She continued, "The plane? From Alaska? Got in 23 minutes ago. If we go now we can beat them to the warehouse. Stop them from killing people."

"You are not coming."

"Why not!? I just wanna wait in the car. Offer advice, moral support, that sorta thing."

"This, is gonna be a fight. You, no offense, but you can't take on demons."

"And what? You can? All alone? There's eight of them. Maybe more. I'm coming with. I won't fight anyway! I know I can't do that. I just want to be there. I want to help save these people."

"Eight?" Dean choked. He couldn't take on eight demons. He couldn't. Even with his knife and a hell of a lot of holy water he wouldn't be able too. He hated to do this, dear God he hated to do this, but he needed Charlie's help.

"Oh God..." He groaned, rubbing his face, "Okay, Charlie, you're right. I can't do this alone. I need you to help."

"Good. I'll man the get-away car for when you're done killing those bitches."

"No, Charlie, I need you to fight."

"W-What?" She shook her head vigorously, "Dean – no! I can't! I'm tiny, little me. Nerdy, a little geeky, I know everything to know about Lord of the Rings! But I can't fight demons. I... I can't."

"Charlie, I know. I know. And I hate to ask you to do this. Trust me, I would never ask if it wasn't the only choice, but if we don't stop them – they are one step closer to releasing the goddamn Devil, and freaking Armageddon will rain down on us."

"But there has to be... Other hunters? Somebody, anybody else, who can help you."

"There's no hunters I know of within a two hour drive. Charlie, they could do this spell tonight. And unless we stop them now, they will do it eventually. Sooner, rather than later."

Everything was frozen for thirty seconds as Charlie shut her eyes.

"Okay. But –"

"Yeah?"

"Promise me one thing?"

"Anything."

"Don't. Let. Me. Die."

"I won't." He promised, pulling her in for an uncommon hug as she took deep breaths, trying to remain calm.

 

Everything shifted. The imagery swirled, and he landed face down on a thin carpet, groaning.

"Hey Dean." Charlie's voice said. Except it wasn't Charlie.

After stabbing four demons on his own, with help from Charlie splashing them with a ton of holy water, and after she fired round after round of salt rock into two other's chests – hurting them like a bitch but not killing the demons – another had barrelled itself out in a turmoil of black smoke, rising up into the ceiling. Dean swiftly took on the other two, swinging with his fists and then getting shoved against a wall. But he'd managed to stab that demon, and relentlessly cut down the other, whom was bending over in pain from another shot of salt.

Charlie's good. Really good, actually. She'd said she'd been practicing and learning some things, but her accuracy and lack of hesitation with each shot was beyond impressive for such a fragile seeming person.

Dean had been about ready to call it a win – to go unlock the three people from the office room upstairs, and hightail it out of here – but then, the escape-y smoke returned, tunnelling straight into Charlie, her anti-possession charm had gotten ripped off somewhere in the fight.

And then Dean lay groaning on the floor.

"You thought you could just waltz in here, with this fiery-haired chick and take us down? Think again, buck-o. Where's your brother, huh? Little Sammy?" Dean struggled to get up, his dagger had flown across the room, landing amongst some collapsed chairs. He tried not to listen to the demon in Charlie, but he had to watch her, he had to get her freed of the demon bitch and save her. She would not be dying tonight. "I guess your little bro ain't so little now is he? Making his own decisions, skipped out on you." She snorted at Dean, as he attempted to shift toward his knife, or to the nearly empty container of holy water, or, if he became extremely desperate, the gun with salt rock shells in it. But he couldn't hurt Charlie's form, he was going to have to exorcise the demon if he couldn't coax it out of Charlie soon.

"If I'm hearing the rumours correctly, Sam's on his way to becoming one of us." She drawled coldly.

"Yeah? Well maybe you should stop listening to the ladies at the hairdressers then, because you are so wrong." Dean replied snarkily.

Then he lunged for the holy water, leaping up and tossing what was left at the demon, she hissed, hiding her face as she steamed, and Dean had lost no time with his chanting.

" _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_ –" The demon snarled, beginning to quiver and shake as the incantation started to force them from Charlie's body.

"– _Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio_ –" She flailed more, falling against a wall, and then, she brought out the dagger from Charlie's belt, Dean had given it to her as back-up, even if it wouldn't do much to demons.

"You want to save your friend Dean Winchester?" The demon screamed, but he kept chanting, he was almost there, he prepared himself to deflect the dagger from the demon should they choose to send it sailing his way.

"– _Infernalis adversarii, omnis legio_ –"

"Better luck next time." The demon said furiously – and then they sank the blade without hesitation into their chest.

" _Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica!_ "

And then smoke blasted out of Charlie, and Dean sprinted forward to her, kneeling down as a weight the size of a boulder crushed him from above, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

"Oh God, oh God no." Dean whimpered helplessly. Charlie's eyes fluttered open, she coughed and blood came up, she had tears flooding down her face, the dagger the demon had plunged into her hadn't been a direct hit, but it was plenty close enough. Dean couldn't save her.

"Charlie... Charlie... It's okay. I got you, okay?" She could barely hold her light-green eyes open. She blinked, and shaked her head a bit. Dean was holding her across his lap, her neck and shoulders supported by his arm. His other hand was holding hers, and a tear has escaped him, running down his cheek.

"Dean."

"Charlie?"

" _Go save the world_." She said, her words barely understandable through her mouthful of blood and her inability to breathe properly. Her body shuddered, but she was still there. Dean couldn't speak, he kept opening his mouth but he couldn't find the words. More tears fell from his face to her blood-stained sweater.

"Peace out, bitches." Charlie wheezed, eyes shutting, one hand forming the Star Trek sign on her chest – until it went slack. And Charlie, was gone.

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

Dean awakes with a start, eyes snapping open and looking around. It feels like someone is there. The curtains covering the glass doors sway slightly, as though a gust of wind had just passed through. He sits up, running a hand over his face. The room is empty, besides Sam. Two ideas struggle in his head a moment before Dean favors to get up and stretch. He walks about the room, raises his hands over him, pulls his muscles taut, and then yawns.

He's about to return to bed, when something occurs to him that hadn't earlier.

The child.

The little boy who got hit by a car. That wasn't a suicide, the kid hadn't even died from the collision. What is different about him? The fact that he's 8 years old probably isn't it, whoever's doing this wants people pushing up daisies, not loitering in a hospital bed. The brothers are already planning to talk to the boy and his parents tomorrow anyway, which is good.

Maybe the ghosts don't just give off some side-effect to the person their haunting in a way that makes the person confused or anxious or suicidal. Maybe the ghosts talk to them. And legitimately convince the victims to take their own life. And dogs can't talk, which would explain a lot. What it must be – to be a normal person, unaware of the supernatural, and suddenly have someone you knew, someone who you cared about – haunt you and have no one else able to see them or help. It's enough to send any sane person mad. Dean's sure that he has so much blood on his hands already that a ghost wouldn't ever be able to get to him that way.

Probably.

He sits down at the dining table, yanking his laptop open. It's 4 in the morning, just a bit after, he got in bed around midnight... Dean decides he got his four hours of rest and goes to the web pages Sam found about the ghost people. Dean has yet to skim through them himself, and he wants to double check something. And just as he guessed, the two ghosts were both buried in the same cemetery.

Fairmount Cemetery, second oldest in Denver, been around since the 1890's. He cross-checks with two other cities, to see if maybe something about the cemeteries connected or seemed strange, but nothing apparent came up. Whatever's happening, there has to be groups of people casting the spells across the country – meeting up and raising some spirits with fancy-lingo and mixed herbs. But for what? And who? There's no strange weather patterns suggesting demon activity in the past few weeks. Nothing's adding up. All of the facts are here to look at, but the motive, the thing that requires an operation so large, and how they can manage it nationally. It must be a lot of people, or... Things...working together to accomplish all this. It's important. And it's gonna be a huge pain in the ass to clean up.

Dean rubs his face again, leaning back in his chair. He shuts the computer down, and he's about to open the door to the patio, get some fresh air, when the glass starts freezing over.

The temperature has dropped about 20 degrees.

"Shit." He mutters.

"Sam! Sammy!" Dean calls. Sam growls, flipping over to glare at Dean, before it dawns on him too that it's fucking cold, and that something is wrong.

"Ghosts?" Sam leaps out of bed, tossing the sheets up and going straight for the duffel with their guns.

"Yeah. And we never got around to getting more salt rock shells." Dean curses himself.

"Here."

Dean catches the shotgun, bringing it up and cocking it, waiting for the ghost to show their face. "Any iron in there?"

"Yeah, couple of fire pokers. They'll do the job I guess, but we can't hold it off forever once it starts getting all vengeful."

"I don't get it. The connections that they were buried in the same cemetery – why're they coming after us?"

Sam doesn't get a chance to answer, the lights snap on, and immediately start to flicker. Even the television turns on – some late night soap opera all staticky as the ghost screws with it.

"Show yourself!" Dean demands the air.

Then it all stops. The TV and lights quietly turn off, and the room begins to warm up.

"Dean."

The Winchesters nearly shoot Castiel he shows up so unexpectedly.

"What?" Cas is staring at him with those piercing eyes of his, "Did you make all the lights freak out?"

"No. I didn't."

"Cas, what's going on?" Sam searches for an explanation on the angel's face, but it's only sympathetic and apologetic looking – turning determined and concerned as his face turns to Dean's.

"Dean, I don't know much of anything, but you need to be careful. You need to focus," Cas begins walking to the hunter, not breaking the gaze. Dean knows his expression is bewildered and confused, "You can't let her get to you. It's going to be hard. But you must focus. It's going to hurt, and you are going to have to fight hard. It's going to hurt, I know it will." A pause as Castiel comes within 6 inches of Dean, "I swear to you, what happened then, _was not your fault_."

"Cas, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Guys." Sam interrupts.

And Charlie is standing in the middle of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere apologies to Charlie fans, I'm as upset as you are for what I did to Charlie :-/


	4. Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Charlie back and in ghost form, the brothers interview the little boy being haunted by his dog.
> 
> Warnings for suicidal Dean in this chapter, but he'll be okay, promise.

The first thing that happens, is that Dean is rendered speechless. His mind goes blank, and a mixture of confusion and fear drop into him.

"Heya, bitches." Charlie smiles friendily, giving a wave, "Uh, so, you can drop the guns. I'm not gonna... Hurt you."

Sam is taken aback just as much as Dean, neither of them sure what to do. Castiel stands in front of Dean – almost like a shield should Charlie lash out. The younger Winchester lowers his shotgun.

"Charlie? I – how are you? What are you...doing here?"

Dean waits with bated breath to hear the answer. _She's here to get revenge. I killed her. It's my fault she's gone and now I'm going to pay up. Well, I guess I deserve it. I swore I'd keep her safe, and I fucked up._

"I don't know. But – Heaven's treating me pretty swell." Charlie shrugs.

"What's it like...?" Sam asks carefully – he's already setting down his gun.

It strange. Sam is treating her like an old friend who went on vacation and came back early – Dean is frozen – and Castiel is protectively stepping forward.

"It's hard to explain, I don't really remember it now that I'm down here. But... It was happy. I was happy."

"That's – that's good."

"Charlie?" Dean finds his voice.

"Hi, Dean. How're you?" She says gently.

"I recommend not speaking to her." Cas warns.

"Well hello to you too Mr. Grumpy. It's nice to meet you finally. Why do you seem so–" She gestures at Cas, "uneasy. I don't know why I'm here, but I wouldn't dream of seeking 'vengeance' or whatever ghosts do, if that's what you're thinking."

Dean suddenly finds it terribly difficult to breathe. He feels claustrophobic and trapped, he whips back to the glass doors, and shoves one open, stepping outdoors. Sam watches his brother flee with concern, they're gonna have to talk about this. He knows what happened to Charlie, and he knows that the only reason she was involved was 'cus Sam wasn't there. It's crossed his mind a few times, that maybe the girl would still be alive if he hadn't skipped off – then again, there'd be a _lot_  of people still alive. He feels the need to make it up to Charlie especially though, but how?

Sam doesn't do anything to stop Cas from joining Dean outside, and instead tries to fathom a conversation to have with Charlie, he might as well see if she knows anything about the suicides.

"Do you know what's been going on down here at all?"

"No, I, uh," She keeps looking to the porch worriedly, "No I don't. I just suddenly was whisked out of Heaven, I floated around here for a bit but I couldn't do or hear anything, and then, poof! Here I am. And...here you two are. How are you Sam?" She adds.

Sam sits at the bottom of his bed, Charlie seems... Well, normal. Human. But in ghost-form, if she turns vengeful, he's fairly certain it won't be because _she_  is angry, more so that someone else is targeting them. They can hear Dean talking vaguely through the glass, he's clearly upset.

"I'm fine. I'm good." She nods waiting for more, "I'm clean. If that's what you're...asking about. I dried up entirely. It hurt like hell," Sam winces at the memory, "But once I broke free of it – it was gone completely."

"So you guys stopped the Apocalypse then, huh? Kept Lucifer down below?"

"Yeah, it was all Dean... I really started to go –"

"Dark-side?"

He sighs, "At the end, it was like I couldn't even see right or wrong. I had one task, and it was all I could focus on – that, and drinking enough...blood to be stronger than Lilith."

"How did you stop her? I mean, you didn't kill her obviously, so what happened instead?"

"Exorcised her."

"Really? That easy?"

"No, heh, no not at all. But I was out cold for most of it, Cas knocked me out, I went a little nuts when they stabbed Ruby. It was some other exorcism, combined with a spell or something like that."

"Wow. That's... Intense." Charlie moves to the wall, leaning against it, Sam's still surprised how solid a ghost can be to the objects around them. He half expects her to slip through the wall to the other side, but she doesn't. "How long has it been since then?"

"Four months."

"So I've been in Heaven for... 6? Maybe 5 and 1/2? It felt like so much longer. But it was hard to tell too, 'cus there was no set daylight cycle. If I wanted to stargaze with an Asian beauty, I would be. If I wanted to have a day at beach in the sun – I would. It was easy to forget my real life. But... I'm glad I'm back. I've wanted to check in on you guys. I miss you."

"We've been missing you too, Charlie. You're part of the family, and... We let you down. When you needed us the most."

"Nuh uh," Charlie reprimands, wagging a disapproving finger, "Nope. You two can't blame yourself for what happened. A demon bitch killed me, it was my time, I've accepted it, don't think it was your fault, 'cus it wasn't. Okay?"

Sam smiles at that, "Yeah okay. I know, you're right. But I can't help but think that if I had been there for Dean, you wouldn't of had to take my place."

"I didn't take your place, I made my own, and that's just how it went down. It was my time, I've made peace. No point in fighting it, right?"

"I suppose not." Sam gives in.

"How's Dean?"

 

• ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ •

 

Dean's palms are pushing against his eyes when Cas puts a hand on his shoulder.

"What's wrong?"

"You know what's wrong."

"Yes I do, but I think it's foolish."

Dean turns on him, fixing a hard glare at the angel. "You think it's _foolish_  to feel like shit for getting someone killed?"

"No, I think it's _foolish_  to blame yourself for something you had no power over."

"I was there! I had all the power in the world to save Charlie but I didn't move fast enough, I shouldn't of fucked around, I was worried about me _and_  her — when I should've just been worrying about _her_."

"Don't undermine your value. You did everything you could, Dean, no one could have stopped that demon unless you stabbed her yourself, but then Charlie would be dead anyway. You did your best to save her. Believe that, and don't feel obligated to save everyone."

Dean scoffs, "I don't feel obligated to save _everyone_ , there's some real dick-heads out there, however I do think it's my job to protect and _save_ , my family! Is that so bad!?" Dean says loudly.

"Life and death is not in our hands, our times of coming and going are controlled by someone much wiser than us both." Castiel attempts to reassure him, and failing.

"Who? God?"

Cas doesn't respond, but Dean knows that's what he meant.

"Super, Cas. Just super. God – right, he decides all that crap. Well then why in the _hell_ , did he decide Charlie should die! She was just a kid, Cas..." He trails off, sadness replacing his anger. "She was just kid, who got dragged into the crappy half of the world and just wanted out! But she couldn't get free."

Dean leans his back against the railing, street lamps and shop signs set the street below aglow, and cast a hazy brightness over the two men. Cars pass by – few and far between – and Castiel doesn't know how to comfort Dean. Cas can feel the hunter's self-hatred, remorse, and an underlying tone of fear lingers as well – clearly being suppressed but rising fervently to the surface.

"What if I break?"

Cas tilts his head to one side, not understanding.

"What if she breaks me? What if I kill myself?"

The mere mention of that shocks Cas breathless.

"Your brother and I would never let that happen. She can only hurt you as much as you let her. For now...she seems fine. She seems in control – you must be too, you must maintain focus. We won't let her hurt you. You must know that, right?" Castiel comes a couple steps closer in earnest.

"But – if she convinces me, or makes me, or whatever – wouldn't it put her at rest? Couldn't she go back to Heaven then? I mean if what she's attached to down here is me, since _I'm responsible for killing her_ , if I die, she'll lose the connection. Go back in peace." Dean maunders on, convincing himself.

"There are other ways to send her back." Cas states firmly and urgently, it sounds as though Dean is _already_ giving up, _already_ giving in. He can't let the man torture himself this way.

"But what if there's not?"

There's an uneasy pause, and then –

"You don't believe you deserve to be saved." It dawns on Cas then. Dean breaks their eye-contact shamefully. "Why do you do this to yourself? You have as much right as any other to live, have a life –"

"A life?" Dean interrupts coldly, "I don't get a life Cas. I get to live, sure. I get to _survive_ , yes. But a life? This is no life. I cheat, lie, the closest thing I've ever had to a home is an old war-bunker! I don't get luxuries, I rarely even get a decent hotel. I lose people, I've sold my damn soul, countless deaths are on _me_ to bare, no matter how many people I save. I'm a scumbag 80% of the time. To Sam, to chicks – to people who just want to help — Don't lecture me on getting a _life_ , when you've never even lived one yourself!" Dean growls, a twinge of regret poking at him for his last words. Maybe that had gone to far. But he doesn't apologise, _See I am an asshole_ , he thinks.

But the angel remains silent, just takes Dean's words without batting an eyelash. He can sense that Dean doesn't mean to hurt _him_ , but rather express his own thoughts as though he expects them to be confirmed. Which they _won't_  be, because the human is so incredibly wrong.

 _Castiel we need you here,_ an Angel's voice whispers to him.

He studies Dean a minute more, slowly shutting off the emotional link between them, if the Angels found out...

"I must go. I'll be back soon."

This catches Dean's attention, "Where are you going?" And he's about to actually apologise when –

"To my _life._ " And then Cas is gone.

 

Dean renters the motel room not much later. He feels bad about his outburst, and for getting mad at Cas. But he has other things to concern himself with right now.

"Sam? And uh, Charlie. How's it going?" Dean asks cautiously, sure that he just disrupted a conversation about himself.

"Fine. What about you? You okay?" Sam checks.

 _No, I'm not okay_. "I'm fine. Just, surprised really." He shrugs, trying to sell the bored attitude, "So, Charlie, know anything about the other ghosts who've been popping up all over the country?"

"No. Like I said, I have no idea why I'm here. But it probably isn't a, uh –" She frowns in disappointment, "good thing, is it?"

Dean grabs a half-empty water bottle from his bedside table, and sits on a blanket chest. "It's good to have you, but bad news to see you, I'm afraid."

"Great. That's what I thought you were gonna say. Why can't I, ya' know, just pop by for a visit? No harm no foul. No doom no gloom. That should be easy, shouldn't it?" Charlie says hopefully.

"It never is." Dean mumbles.

"A ton of ghosts have been haunting people this past month – haunting people who had to do with why they died – and then the victim's commit suicide after a week or two of seeing the ghost." Sam catches Charlie up on the whole case – from the dog to the drug rings one of the victims busted.

Dean never stops watching her. A part of him can't believe she's there, talking and listening and not _alive_ , yet still very much _existing._ And another part has it in his right mind to swipe through Charlie with iron and haul-ass in Baby far away so he doesn't have to confront his past, and his guilt. For now all he can do is see how everything plays out. Besides, maybe she can help. And maybe, if he's very lucky, they'll be able to fix this whole thing before Charlie starts what she came here for.

"Oh, guys – Sammy, I forgot to tell ya' but when you were sleeping I found that all the ghosts are buried in the same cemetery."

"Really? How'd I miss that?"

"I've got keen-ass eyes. Maybe you need glasses. Nerdy ones with thick lenses and frames."

"Wearing glasses doesn't automatically make you nerdy." Charlie puts in.

"In my book it does." Dean assures her.

"Well that makes it easier, doesn't it?" Sam says.

"For you to see, I'm sure it will."

"No, Dean," He sighs, annoyed, "The cemetery. That's got to be where the source is, so if we can find what it is, and get rid of it, ghosts should stop rising."

"And I'll be sent back?" Charlie slides down the wall until she's sitting on the floor.

"Probably. Yeah, I would assume so." Sam tells her.

"It's for the best." Dean pauses, "I don't want you trapped down here watching our sorry-asses all the time."

"And so I don't wig out and try to kill you." Charlie voices Dean's thoughts quietly. He doesn't say anything.

Sam clears his throat pointedly, "Dean, can I talk to you for a second?"

The older brother rolls his eyes, smirking, 'cus this is – _just so typical Sam_. But Dean got his anger out earlier. He talked it out, kind of, with Cas. He's doesn't want be told by yet another person that _it wasn't his fault_  and that _he shouldn't beat himself up over it_  – it _was_ his fault, and he _will_  beat himself up about it if he wants. "No Sam, I think I'm good."

"Dean." Sam asserts.

"Nope. I don't wanna do this right now."

Charlie stays quiet, desperately wanting to go on a computer or eat something or watch a movie or TV. TV with _commercials_. She misses the irritating jingles and cheesy jokes and unconvincing smiles of actors. She misses the "Just 19.99! And we'll throw in a second set _absolutely_  free!". She misses waiting for a pizza man to show up at the door and the thrill of illegally hacking into things. She even longs for the times she'd had to disappear. New name, new identity, different city, no one ever really _knowing_  who she was. She wants to wait at red lights, and honk at slow cars, she wants the struggle of finding a half-decent job and putting a roof over her own head. In Heaven, none of that existed. Everything was scrubbed clean, mended, and perfectly wired to her desires and deep wishes. At the time she hadn't noticed it – how unnatural and self-obsessed it was. Heaven, she concluded, is made of falsities, lies, and selfish dreams. Not magic and clouds and sunlight. Maybe, being stuck on Earth for awhile won't be a bad thing.

"I'm going back to bed." Dean announces, disregarding Sam's pointed looks.

"Night, Charlie." He gets up off his seat, running a hand over his face and setting a half-empty bottle down. He crawls into his bed, lying on his side so his back is to the redhead and brunette. Sam won't be getting anything out of him tonight. The other Winchester sighs, and turns the main light off. He sets up some movie for Charlie to watch at the table, since she can't sleep or even leave the motel, and then Sam too hops in bed, trusting Charlie won't harm them.

Dean doesn't fall back asleep. He knew it was a long shot, and pretty impossible. He doesn't trust for one second Charlie's not gonna do something to him – whether it be because she wants to or 'cus someone is making her. He can hear the bubbling voices and background music from Charlie's film, he can barely make out the dialogue but he focuses on it so he won't stress about something else.

"Foolish witch! Look what you've done, Paula's a bitch, yet she still might have won!" The entire program rhymes like that, it sounds infinitely cheesy, but he can't help but smile every time a musical number comes on and they start singing about potion making and broom stick flying.

 _You don't believe you deserve to be saved_ , Cas's distraught and concerned expression swims before him.

_Doesn't this remind you of the Witnesses?_

Dean remembers that night, the second time he'd ever seen Castiel – he'd shown up in the kitchen, Sam and Dean had been sleeping on the floor in Bobby's house. Cas had told him the phantoms were one of the seals to free Lucifer, and it had been broken. He had gotten frustrated at the angel, saying that Heaven should've been doing more to stop it – he at the time still wasn't entirely convinced Cas _was_  an angel. He was pissed, Cas was frustrated — There had been this moment though, where the trench-coated man had tilted his head and peered into Dean's eyes with such conviction and at such a close proximity, that Dean was sure he was going to kiss him. What with his fluffed sex-hair and his tone when he murmured " _You should show me some_ _respect_ ," – how could Dean think anything else? He hadn't the faintest what he'd do if what he pictured truly occurred, he imagines he'd have backed away and been kinda freaked out. Of course, that was before...

"There was an old woman,  
Her name it was Peg;  
Her head was of wood and  
She wore a cork leg.  
The neighbours all pitch’d  
Her into the water,  
Her leg was drowned first,  
And her head followed after."

A few high pitched screams come from Sam's laptop, and Charlie gasps in response. Dean rolls over, he can see Charlie at the table, her figure dull and greyish. The sunrise is starting to rise behind the curtains, casting an orange accent over the room. Dean shuts his eyes tightly, not wanting to think or feel or exist, because _that one_ _damn ti_ _me_  keeps loitering his thoughts. _It was stupid. I was drunk. It didn't mean anything about myself, it was what it was. I got caught up in the moment and it would have been rude and awkward to try and stop it. Well, I did stop it, and it was rude and awkward. God_. He thinks these things multiple times every day, ever since  _it_  happened – ever since he made things a lot more complicated than they should be.

 

"What'd Bobby have to say?" Dean asks Sam 3 hours later as they head to the Impala to drive to the hospital.

"He said he'd look into it more, but so far he hasn't come across any sort of spell or creature or person that's powerful enough to raise all these ghosts. And he's having a few other hunter's check into some of the other cemeteries to see what's up."

" 'Kay, cool. So, what hospital's the kid at?" Dean gets behind the wheel, Sam in shotgun, and Charlie appears in the back.

"Rocky Mountain Children's Hospital, it's in Northeast."

They're about two blocks away in fifteen minutes. Charlie can't leave them, or go stay at the motel. She _is_  attached to Dean, which means she has to come with them everywhere. She can maintain invisibility pretty easily though, which is a plus.

"Okay, Charlie, when we get in there you need to stay hidden, okay? We can't have you popping in and out – people'll freak out, and I really don't want to deal with that." Dean tells her in the rear view mirror.

"I can do that."

"Okay, good."

Walking in, the brothers wince simultaneously at the the smell and blinding, fluorescent lights. They're wearing suit jackets and shirt, but nice jeans and no tie. They're not here as FBI, which could backfire in theory – using two fake identities in one place – but there's no way they could come up with a decent excuse as to why the FBI wants to interview an eight-year-old with a broken arm and rib. They approach the front desk, Sam leading the way, he's more friendly and convincing then Dean when it comes to situations like this.

"Hi. I'm Sam, and this is my partner Dean, we're with the Denver's Children Safety Association. We're here to speak with Kyle Wrensworth?"

The woman at reception hardly glances up from a stack of papers she's leafing through. "Uh huh. Why?"

"We're supposed to check in on his well being, remind him of the danger streets and the city have, and make sure he's not in too much shock."

"He has doctors and parents who oversee all those sorts of things."

"I'm sure he does, but sometimes kids are intimidated by doctors and aren't willing to open up."

She nods like this makes sense, then goes through some files on her computer. "Room 418, fourth floor, elevators over their, here's a note..." She scribbles something on a sticky note and signs it, handing it to him, "You'll be accompanied by nurse that the boy knows."

Sam thanks her, then the Winchesters hop in the elevator. An old man in a wheelchair and a bald head rolls in after them, Sam holding back the electric doors to allow him entrance. The man clicks the number six, and it's lit along with the number four.

"Going up." Says an animatronic lady's voice.

Dean grabs hold of the metal rail on the wall and tries not to think about how similar this feels to the lift-off of an airplane. _I'm fine. It's fine. Don't worry about i_ _t_. The air is stuffy, and it smells of bleach, but soon a bell rings and– "Level four. Level four."

A fresh gust of winds blows over Dean as the doors slide open and he sighs in relief, hastily walking out. Sam gives him a curious look, and follows.

"Were you scared of the elevator, man?"

"What? No. Of course not." Dean fibs.

"Are you sure? You were kinda holding on for dear life in there. I swear your knuckles turned white."

"You're making that up." Dean says with conviction.

"Totally." Sam agrees sarcastically.

They walk down a hallway, Dean huffing in annoyance. He can practically _hear_  Sam smirking.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

 

Their banter is intercepted by a woman in white lab coat rushing between them, she looks back, blond hair covering half her face, Dean smiles at her.

"Dude, now's not the time." Sam chastises.

"You can't deny it, Sammy, nurses are hot."

"She was a doctor," Sam tells him, they're approaching the correct room number, "And way out of your league."

416...416b...417...Supplies...418

Dean peaks in the small window. Kyle, a small skinny boy with lots of brown thick hair, is looking at television screen hung on the wall, and a girl is also in there, looks to be about 13 years old, she's drawing on a huge whiteboard that covers the right wall. Sister? That would make sense. The boy probably wouldn't have been able to post the ghost-sighting to that website on his own. She must've seen it too.

"Let's be quick. If someone comes in they're going to wonder why we didn't get a nurse." Dean knocks, then pulls open the door.

"Hi there. Are you Kyle?" Sam steps in first, apparently Dean's bad at talking to kids, he's intimidating or something. _Whatever_.

"Yeah." Croaks the kid. One arm is heavily covered in an orange cast, and the left side of his torso is visibly wrapped beneath his blue shirt.

"Who're you?" Asks the girl suspiciously.

"I'm Sam, this is Dean, we're from Denver's Children Safety Association. We were wondering if I could ask you some questions about how you got hurt?"

"What for?" Insists the sister, "You should wait till our parents get back. We shouldn't be alone in here with you." Her voice is panicky, and Dean recognises the tone as fearful denial.

Sam's about to explain, but Dean cuts in, determining to be direct about it all, "Let me ask you both something — have you been seeing anything strange lately? Something... Unbelievable? That maybe you don't want to tell your parents about?"

A beat of silence, and then Kyle says yes while his sister whispers no.

"Kyle!" She complains, alarm written all over her.

"Maybe they're seeing a ghost too!" He pipes up, and the sister seethes with rage at him.

"It's _not real_ , we agreed not to mention it – _ever_!"

"It's okay, it's okay. We believe you. That's why we're here. We want to help." Sam comforts, bringing forth the wheeled nurse's stool and sitting down, leaving Dean to lurk in the corner. "Just tell me what happened. What's your name?"

"Jenna."

"Jenna, Kyle. How did your dog die?"

"I let him off his leash to run around... We were playing frisbee." Kyle describes.

"We weren't supposed to be, our Dad had told us to just take Speedy on a walk around the block. He didn't want us outside in the grass." The sister mentions.

"Do you know why?" Asks Dean.

She nods, "He'd just sprayed a ton of pesticide over the lawn to keep bugs and weeds away, he didn't want us tracking it in."

"I was throwing the Frisbee to Jenna, but I threw it really bad. It landed in the street...and then..."

"And then Speedy got hit." Says Sam gently. The brother droops.

"Yeah."

"How soon did you see his ghost after that?"

"I think it was two days after. We were playing a board game when he came running over it, he was so cold..." Jenna shivers.

"Did he try and get you to do anything?"

"Only go outside, he kept yapping and pawing at the door. It's like he couldn't leave the house without Kyle. I wrote the post about seeing the ghost – that's who you guys really are, right? Ghostbusters?" Jenna infers.

"Something like that." Dean says, but gives the girl credit, she catches on fast.

"What happened with your dog when he died?" Sam asks.

"What do you mean?" The brother turns off the television. The thing about talking to kids, it takes a lot less to convince them of the truth. They're always more open-minded than adults.

"Like, did you bury your dog?"

"Yeah, um," Jenna begins nervously, "At night we went with our mom and dad and we buried him in the cemetery. We all knew we weren't supposed to do that, it's not allowed, but we wanted him buried by the rest of our family."

Sam makes eye contact with Dean, this proves their suspicions true. _The cemetery_.

"Have you seen a ghost before?" Kyle inquires of them.

"Yeah, uh, a few." Sam answers him.

"Prove it." The little boy challenges.

"Uh..." Sam struggles.

"Charlie?" Dean offers a solution. And then Charlie flickers into existence, smiling at the kids whose mouths have dropped.

"Woah." They both say.

That's when Dean starts to worry. He's paranoid, he knows, but how can Charlie just be herself? How can she not be mad? Why is she even here? To kill him? She disappears again, but this only increases his anxiety.

"Shit." Dean mutters so quietly no one can hear, "Are you two still seeing your dog?"

They look at each other, then Kyle nods. "He's laying at the end of my bed, sleeping. Right there." He points, but the Winchesters can't see anything there. Dean yanks his EMF detector out, switching it on. Immediately the red bulbs light up, the machine whirring loudly.

"Umm...um...okay. So you kids need to be careful. The ghost may look like your dog, but he _isn't_. He's dangerous." Dean tells them, he can feel adrenaline pumping through him now. Things are heating up. _We got to protect these kids_.

"What do you mean?" Jenna queries.

"I mean that when your brother got hit by the car? When he was chasing your ghost-dog? The ghost _meant_  for that to happen. He's trying to get revenge for what happened to him." Dean clarifies.

"Speedy's trying to kill me?" Whimpers Kyle sadly.

"That's not Speedy, Kyle. This is an angry ghost who's tricking you." Sam tells him, glaring at Dean for scaring the boy, "Speedy would never hurt you."

"What can I do to keep my brother safe?" Jenna speaks up with purpose.

Dean gestures her closer, guiding her by the wall to talk privately while Sam consoles Kyle.

"Don't let him leave this room. Don't let him do or use anything dangerous. Can you see the dog?"

"Sometimes. It's weird it's like it can hide from me if it wants to, like if I'm talking about how to get rid of it."

Dean notices how she uses the word it instead of he. "You knew the ghost was bad news, didn't you? That's why you posted your message in the first place, to get help."

"I had a bad feeling about it. Can I –" She hesitates looking at the empty air beside him, "– ask about your ghost?"

"Erm. It's complicated, but she was my lil' sister. And it was... Well it was my fault what happened." Dean sighs, "Anyway. Ahem, uh, _do not_  leave your brother alone. Don't do it. I'm gonna see if I can get you a salt shaker to keep in here."

"A what? Salt shaker? Why?"

"If Speedy is getting out of control, toss some salt on him, or have your brother if you can't see him. It'll make him disappear for a minute. Now this ghost shouldn't attack you, he's just trying to make Kyle attack himself."

"Okay. Got it. I won't leave his side."

"Imma go find that salt, be right back." Dean talks loudly enough for Sam to hear, then evacuates the room. He passes by a reception desk, hoping no one stops him. He walks through an empty hall, following the signs that say "Stairs" and "Cafeteria on Floor Three". He quickly makes his way down the steps, so what if he hates elevators? Those things are dangerous. _What if one stopped mid-rise and I got trapped inside? Or what if the cord snapped and it fell and killed my ass_?

**_"Maybe that wouldn't be so bad."_ **

Dean nearly trips down the final step. That wasn't him. That wasn't his thought. That was someone else's. He doesn't dwell on it, he'll worry about that later, for now he slides between the plastic rubber flaps of the cafeteria door. A couple dozen people are inside. Most aren't patients, rather parents or friends of patients, all eating breakfast. Circular tables cover the floor, the back wall has large glass-less windows that open up to the kitchen. People go in line to order food or serve themselves from the salad bar, vending machines are available too – Dean eyeballing one filled with endless types of chocolate bars. It's the sort of place that feels off. Like everything looks just a little too tidy and clean to actually _be_  tidy and clean. And like everyone pretends or thinks the food is good just 'cus it's served on real glass plates instead of plastic or paper. He will not ever eat here. He swipes a salt shaker from the nearest table, tucks it into his pocket, and turns back to the door.

"Who're you?" Says a blond woman, a bit shorter than he.

"I, uh, I'm Dean. I'm with Denver's Children Safety Association. I was just, uh, scouting this place out. Might be here for a bit." He's having a strangely hard time putting sentences together.

"I saw you in the hall on the next floor, didn't I?" She squints at him.

It's the blond doctor. "Oh yeah. Yeah you did, sorry, I uh, got to be going."

**_"Back to Hell."_ **

He tenses at the whisper inside his head, but gives the woman a wave, skirting around her, and leaves as fast as possible.

**_"I was so innocent. So young. I barely knew what I was doing. But I wanted to prove myself to you. I wanted to show you that I wasn't some wimp, that I could fend for myself."_ **

Dean takes the stairs three at a time, his heart is racing, and he can't think straight. The other voice is too loud, pounding in his ears.

**_"You should've known, Dean. That I couldn't handle it. You should've known."_ **

He can barely breathe when he reaches the landing, everything is spinning. Somehow, by pure luck, he makes it back to room 418 without passing out or anyone stopping him. _What the hell is happening to me_? He slams the door shut behind him, his brother and the two other siblings jump.

"Dean are you okay?" Sam stands up, lowering his notebook in concern.

"Something friggin' weird is going on man, there's this voice inside my head! And it keeps talking to me!" Dean can't calm down, his panic level rising.

"Dean! Dean, calm down. Deep breaths, okay? We need to take care of these kids, hold it together." Sam soothes, putting his hands on Dean's shoulders. Dean follows his instructions. _Breathe in, breathe out._

"Good. You feel better?"

"Not really, but yeah." The eldest mutters.

"What going on?" Jenna butts in, confused and weary.

"Nothing. He's just having a moment. Everything's fine." Sam rushes unconvincingly. "Did you get the salt?"

Dean nods, getting it from his pocket and handing it over.

"Okay, so, Jenna. If the ghost gets angry, what are you going to do?" Sam reviews.

"Unscrew the lid, throw it at it, keep a close eye on Kyle, then call you at the number on your card." She holds up Sam's number.

"Perfect. Exactly." Sam looks back at Dean, "Let's go check the cemetery right now."

"And leave these kids alone? We can't do that."

"We have too, we got to figure out what the hell is causing this and stop it before –"

"I know. I know, but we need someone here with them."

"You? Or me?" Sam asks impatiently.

"No. Not me. Not with, um, my shadow."

Sam knows Dean means Charlie. "Do you think you can't be alone at all?"

**_"Sure you can Dean. Me, you, all by ourselves. The stories I can tell you..."_ **

"No. I can't." Dean's suddenly very sure of that.

Sam suppresses a groan, he doesn't understand that the voice Dean is hearing is _Charlie's_ , "Fine. Well what do you suggest?"

Dean comes up with a plan, "We could call Cas. He can babysit, we'll check the graveyard... Yeah?"

"You go... Call him. In the hall."

Dean steps outside, not messing about at all. He really hopes the angel comes.

 _Cas, we've got a bit of a situation down here. Some little kids needs our help, and me and Sammy needs yours. Please, if you're not busy –_ Dean prays.

"I'm here. How can I help?"

Dean shares all the new information and the plan with Castiel, who nods, and promises to watch the siblings. He'll stay invisible so he won't attract any attention. Then Sam and Dean are out of the hospital, running towards the Impala. Investigating a cemetery in the early morning? That's something new. Dean hits the gas, tires squealing and they pull out of the parking lot, swinging a hard right to drive to mid-downtown.

**_"It must suck to be you."_ **

Dean bites his tongue, straining to ignore the voice.

**_"I thought you were brave. I thought you were selfless. How wrong I was. You're a selfish bastard, and you know it. You're a coward. You let me die. It could've been you instead, then I'd still be alive."_ **

Dean squeezes the steering wheel tight as hell. He focuses on the road. They turn down a quieter street, with some old loft buildings and construction warehouses. He sees trees up ahead, probably lining the cemetery. Sam is staring at him, and his mouth is moving. His brother is talking to him. And then Dean realises he's pressing his foot down hard on the gas pedal, speeding to the tree line. _What's happening_?

**_"It should've been you."_ **

The ghost of Charlie Bradbury appears on the sidewalk not a hundred yards in front of them. Sam is yelling now, a hand shaking Dean's arm — he's driving 60, 70, 80 miles per hour.

 _Let's crash, huh? C'mon Baby, me and you. Time to go. A good captain always goes down with his ship_  – Dean thinks uncontrollably.

_But what about Sam?_

At the last second, he lifts his foot off the gas and slams it down on the brake, the whole car screeches in protest, he yanks the wheel to the left, and the back end of the vehicle whips around, bumping over the curb where Charlie is with a horrible sound. The car is screaming, unable to slow its momentum and it skids sideways to the corner edge of the sidewalk opposite the graveyard. The Impala keeps going even then, finally halting in the middle of the intersection as Dean keeps turning the wheel.

" _Dean! Dean_! Dean what happened!?" Sam is shouting, he looks scared to death. But it's like Dean is underwater. Everything is blurry – sound, his vision, the event that just occurred, nothing makes sense. _Is this a nightmare?_

**_"No. But now it will be. I can promise you that, Dean. You are supposed to die now. Don't you get that?"_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope for those of you who've read this far are enjoying it. I'm doing my best to update weekly, but school's a struggle. I promise things will lighten up and some fun stuff'll happen in a few chapters!


	5. So What Do You Remember?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel struggles with the changes in Heaven, and Dean relives one of the worst parts of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for a semi-brutal torture scene, Hell in general, and some suicide references. 
> 
> In case you're confused, in between the quote marks and these ~ ~ I'm quoting a song, so imagine it like background music.
> 
> Sorry about nothing being in italics where it's supposed to be, I'm going to come back and edit it all nicely as soon as I can.

Castiel finds the human children truly amusing. They are so young in comparison to him. Yet he will out live them for millions more years. If he doesn't get killed anytime soon, that is. 

The girl, Jenna hasn't taken her eyes off of Kyle since Sam and Dean left. She's like a watchdog, her hand is wrapped tightly around the salt shaker, and she's telling her brother it'll all be okay. They remind him of the Winchesters, or maybe a younger version of them, but regardless there's that same unconventional love and trust that seem to go hand in hand with human siblings. Why couldn't his own family be like that? Maybe if they all had communicated better, or if they had spoken their own truths, Heaven wouldn't be picking up the pieces of an almost-apocalypse and a secret-rebellion of Angels. 

But lately, things have gotten better in Heaven. Traitors and disobeyers are being seeked out and punished accordingly, most of them are taken away to re-education, where they could stay for upwards of a century, and a few that withheld the most information and played a large part in the Armageddon Rebellion (as the Angel's declared it) are being locked away into the cells of Heaven. An Angel – not an arch-Angel, which is slightly reassuring – named Naomi took control, and she is carefully putting all the pieces back together. Something had been bothering him, and Cas spoke to her about it just yesterday. 

"Castiel. You wanted to speak to me?" 

"Yes."

"Is there a problem? Has one of new recruits stepped out of line?" Naomi sat, back straight up, at a sleek black desk. Her eyes were blue, but not like Cas's, much more distant, much harder. 

What caught him off guard though was that the room was empty. White, spotless floor, white solid walls. There was no character in there whatsoever. He had grown accustomed to half-made beds, shelves upon shelves of old dusty books. He grown to enjoy the sound of someone typing on a computer, or of a cell phone going off. He'd come to expect a few bags of hunting gear laying around on the floor, maybe a flannel shirt discarded on a chair. It smelled of nothing in there. Which made sense, he supposed, since Angels are not commonly affected or even aware of scents in Heaven. However he wanted the smell of half-burnt pancakes and a spilled beer, or maybe the smell of some "thousand-calorie hockey-puck's on a bun" (as Dean would say) burgers that were greasy, and undeniably delicious (as the hunter ate at least one daily). All those things mattered. All those tiny things made Sam and Dean who they were, but who was Naomi? She was practically no one compared to them. Is this all she had to offer?

It was then Cas felt Dean's soul fluttering around inside him, that desire to fly back down to earth and be with people who cared. To be with people with opinions and hobbies and pet-peeves. What about Heaven was so great, anyway? He knew at once these thoughts were traitorous. These thoughts were disobedient. They were /rebellious/. But for goodness sakes, how has he /lived/ like this for millions of years without ever complaining? Without a single inward plea for freedom? And he wanted to leave, he wanted to leave that office and never, ever come back. But he was, /is/, an Angel, he couldn't just do that. 

"No. The new Elite are just fine. They all completed their training with exceptional talent. I'm allowing them time to settle in and learn as they work." Cas informed her. 

"Then what do you need?"

"I was –" He hesitated, and she squinted at him, "I was wondering where the rest of my Squad have gone."

"Your Squad?" She acted as though she didn't follow, she rested her elbows on the table, putting her chin in her hands

"Yes... My /Squad/. The original Elite Angels, where have they gone?" Cas asked pointedly. 

"Oh, Castiel, you are too sentimental. I assure you, they are just fine." 

"But where are they?" Cas insisted. 

"Why do you want to know?" She challenged. 

He was silent. 

"You have been spending too much time with those Winchester boys Castiel. You're beginning to question orders."

"Yes, and where are these orders coming from exactly?" The question slipped from his mouth before he could stop it. Naomi stood up slowly, she rose with an eerily calm anger, but Cas stood his ground. 

"Those orders are coming from /God/, do you think I would be able to fix Heaven without guidance? Our Lord's wishes are the only thing holding us together, and He has asked that I give Angels a chance to pick their duty in Heaven. Weren't you the one campaigning for "free will" last year, Castiel? Do not blame me for all those Angel's leaving you. They aren't loyal to you, they are loyal to /God/. You are beginning to have too much attachment, you need to focus on what has been assigned to you. Do not question me anymore, Castiel!" Naomi said loudly and furiously, "By questioning me, you are questioning God, you are /just as bad/ as many of the disobedient Angels that have betrayed Heaven."

Cas took it. He took it, and he /heard/ it. 

And he /fought/ it. He chose right then that while he may forever be a part of Heaven, he doesn't have to /trust/ Heaven. He would not let himself be forced into acquiescence ever again. 

"You – are – an – /Angel/, Castiel," Naomi said it as though he were whining about being given a raise at work, "You are /not a human/." She spat with obvious contempt. 

That struck a chord with him. And he felt tempted to reply with /but I might be soon/. 

Cas said nothing. He stared at her, his brows were scrunched together, his mouth in a thin line. She seemed so convinced of herself. 

And then he strode from the room, not daring to open his mouth in fear he said something he couldn't take back. Naomi let him go, and he knew that she would be watching him very closely from now on. 

 

~"No one can blame you for walking away,  
Too much rejection,  
No love injection..."~

 

It had been a risk to once again help Sam and Dean. 

Last night, he'd gone to check in on the Elite. Just quickly, make sure everything was under control. It was all good, every Elite performing well, all of them focused, he went to his place, and began to flicker through Heavens. He'd made a point to find every single soul the Winchesters had saved and were now dead, and all the ones they hadn't been able to save, he looked after their old friends, dead hunters and allies, Ellen and Joe and /Charlie/. And he made sure their Heaven's were safe and happy. He cared about them more. Which, of course, as a guardian he's not supposed to choose favourites, or even have any opinion on the souls at all, but he does. 

But that's not the point. The point is that when he went into Charlie's Heaven she wasn't there. Her soul was gone. He found a scar on the tissue of her world and he knew that she had been brought back to earth for whatever reason, and then as he had been exiting her place and skimming over the others in a rush, he became aware of the fact that she /could be going back to Dean, and that she could have been summoned there to haunt him/. 

And then he flew from Heaven so fast he didn't even lock up properly, he'd barely gotten to the ground in time to warn Dean.

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

The little boy on the hospital bed doesn't seem at all concerned that his life is danger. He's turned the television back on and is watching a cartoon. The kids can't see Cas, which is he doesn't really understand why they shouldn't or why he can't tell them he's an Angel. But he trusts that Dean knows what's best. 

The walls Cas had put up around Dean's soul shatter. 

Wave after wave of self-abhoration rolls over him, and rivers of adrenaline and a determination so fierce it could convince fish they can fly. It's relentless, the emotions pounding through Castiel's veins. He looks at the kids, he wonders if could leave for just few moments to see what's wrong. 

And then it hits him again, so badly he doubles over at the waist while suppressing a groan. /Dean is suicidal/, he puzzles out. And then he's gone from the room in a heartbeat. 

 

~"Life can be easy,  
It's not always swell,  
Don't tell me truth hurts, little girl –  
'Cause it hurts like hell..."~

 

Castiel touches back down in time to see Dean yank the car around before it crashes, Cas had just been about to grab hold of the brothers arms and get them out of there. He makes himself visible, but Sam doesn't see him sitting in the backseat, he's gone entirely pale and is shouting at Dean as the impala roars to a stop, Dean shutting down the engine and leaning his head onto the steering wheel. 

"Sam, what's going on?" Cas asks Sam. The long-haired man is taken by surprise. 

"Cas! He – he – he just tried to —"

"I know what he tried to do! But why did he try and do it?"

"I think he was hearing Charlie's voice in his head, and she made him to do this." Sam leans over to his brother, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Are you okay?"

Dean still doesn't answer, he's breathing heavily. Cas gets out and opens the driver's door, letting fresh air in to cool Dean off. But the man still hasn't moved after five minutes of sitting there. Sam has gotten out of the vehicle, he's reassuring some residents of the houses that everything is alright, that no the driver isn't drunk, and – to the few who actually cared – he said no one was hurt. 

Castiel tries to sense what Dean is feeling, then maybe he would know how to help, but the emotions are blocked off. Either it's all being suppressed so intensely Cas can't feel it, or the connection is broken somehow. 

 

~"But down in the underground,  
You'll find someone true –  
Down in the underground,  
A land serene,  
A crystal moon..."~

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

The first thing Dean saw was an instant replay of when Charlie died. Except he saw it six different times, and every time he saw a dozen ways he could have saved her. A dozen ways he /should/ have saved her. 

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

"Ah, yes. You again, huh? To bad Alastair didn't make you the same offer he made me. I don't get tortured so long as I slice and dice you up all neat and tidy every day. – 'Course, there's others, but I got to say you have my favourite scream to hear." Dean taunted a man with thick, grizzly, grey hair and a pot belly. He had been sent to Hell for raping six women, two men, and killing three people. He had been hard-core drug dealer, he'd even lied to some some of the buyers about the over-dosage amount just to see if they would die. 

Some inner, nearly forgotten, part of Dean told him that he shouldn't be enjoying cutting this man up as much as he was, but, hell, the guy deserved it. Dean picked up a small silver blade from the rusted tea-cart at his side. He twirled it between his fingers, he hadn't done this to the man yet, he'd been saving it. Alastair had been impressed by the maneuver last week when Dean used it on a terrorist from the Mideast. The grey haired man smirked at him. 

"You must have done somethin' real bad upstairs to be his favourite."

Dean didn't answer. 

"So who are you, heh? Why are you so special?"

"Jeremy, I would really recommend shutting your trap, save your voice for screaming."

They were in a dark room with stone walls, water dripped from the ceiling in some places, and it smelt of petrichor. The only light came through the small, barred window set in the iron, padlocked door. Dean was locked inside with his victim until Alastair was satisfied, then he'd heal up whoever Dean had just tortured, and wheel in someone else. He always informed Dean what the person had done to deserve Hell. Some were murderers, burglars, or simply idiots who sold their soul for something worthless. Dean applied his techniques accordingly, and whenever his boss wasn't happy, he'd try something new. 

For the most part, none of it scared Dean. For the most part, the people who left this room didn't haunt him. There had been a few, whom hadn't really deserved what he'd given them, but he had to do it, he didn't have a choice anymore. What did scare him, what did haunt him, was that he didn't care. He didn't feel guilty. Not one damn bit. It was like it was mentally impossible. He wanted to feel like a fucked-up person for what he was doing but he just couldn't. It wasn't until he yanked every single tooth, nail, and hair from a 17 year old by using a pair of grizzly pliers that he even thought about what was happening to him. This kid had killed four classmates, a teacher, and injured three others before taking his own life. And for some reason that was okay with Dean. It got him angry, sure, but not angry about the boy killing people, in fact Dean didn't give a shit. It got him angry and juiced-up because, damn, he could really give the bastard what was coming to him. He felt almost disappointed when Alastair sent in a soul-seller 48 year-old, who just wanted to spend the rest of her life leisurely in Hawaii. He couldn't hurt the woman nearly as much as his entire being begged him too. 

He was turning into a demon. 

And that was okay. 

Jeremy was strung up like Jesus on the cross, his arms and legs spread, he was shirtless, and his skin was flawless. It was smooth and unscathed, without blemishes or even freckles. He was a blank canvas on which Dean would carve his art. 

"How about we talk about why you're down here instead. Alastair told me all about you."

"I'm sure you're painfully disappointed that I'm not a monster like you."

Dean sneered, "Like I did anything like you did. You are a piece of scum."

Dean shoved his knife evenly between Jeremy's skin and his muscles. The man shouted, and Dean wriggled his blade around like he was attempting to loosen a nail from a wall. 

"You raped eight people, you killed at least three people in cold blood, probably more – what with your drug-dealing."

Jeremy's eyes are already swimming with tears, but he bit his tongue. He seemed confused though, like Dean was making up the man's crimes. 

Dean took the chance to grip the other's wrist and hold the arm steady, then, he began to hagardly drag his knife horizontally inside the arm. Thick, hot, red blood streamed from it and pooled on the cold ground. Jeremy was screaming at a blood-curdling pitch. Dean was skinning the man. With a few sickening thwacks, a large strip of skin slumped to the floor. The muscles in Jeremy's arm were red and pulled taut, tendons and other ligaments were below the muscle. The man was moaning and tears covered his face. He was unable to pass out, it was Hell after all. Dean put down his blade with a clatter. He fingered a few other options, and then, with a shrug, he stuck the handles of three, short knives in between his fingers Wolverine-style. He pressed the tips into the man's red flesh with bared teeth, once they were in half-an-inch, and Jeremy was howling again, Dean raked his 'claws' down to the victim's hand. It left three huge purple gashes that had rivers of blood pouring from them. Dean turned around, picked up a pair of pliers, and grabbed onto the extensor-carpi muscle – he didn't what that part of the forearm was called of course, he just knew that it looked tempting. He dug in with the rusted tool so deep he reached bone – it helped that the pliers were spiked. 

He held the handles as tightly shut as he could, then he moved it up and down so the points scraped on bone and tore apart tissue. Dean plucked up a pair of scissors without needing to search for them, and snipped a pink, blood decorated tendon. Jeremy's entire body lurched forward in trauma, and he'd lost so much blood he was barely bleeding anymore. 

"I – I didn't do – any – of those things!!!" He shouted between yells. 

"Likely story, you son of a bitch."

"I swear I didn't. I know that –" Jeremy gasped. Dean let loose the pliers and stepped back, "I know that this is Hell and it's supposed to act like Hell. But if I told why I'm down here would you go a bit easier on me?"

"I know why you're down here! Don't try and lie to me. It doesn't work. You're a snivelling coward. And you should really think twice before making me more upset." Dean made to grab the other wrist instead – to start filleting the skin off that one. 

"I sold my soul! You bastard! Just listen to me! I didn't kill anyone!"

Dean halted. He believed Jeremy. He didn't know why or how but he did. That part of him that knew the truth when he heard it remained, except, apparently, when talking to Alistair. 

"What for?"

"What...?" Jeremy was breathing heavily, tears still streaked down his face, and his left arm butchered brutally. "You – you believe me?"

"Speak fast, don't get your hopes up." Dean growled.

"I – I, sold my soul because my son," Jeremy was in immense pain, pain that would've killed him had they been on earth. He was sweating profusely, and his chest and face were pale. His arm was twitching sporadically, it throbbed, and dripped blood on occasion, "My son had leukaemia, and I just wanted him cured."

Silence. 

Dean dropped his pliers to the ground. He spun around, pressing his palms to his eyes. /Dear god what have I done/? He thought through all the people he had tortured, and wondered how many of them hadn't done what Alastair had said they had. How many innocent people had he abused beyond their necessary punishment? How many souls had he destroyed beyond repair? Thirty years he had been in their exact place, and was tortured in ways he'd never thought of before, but now, as he stood here, he realised he'd hurt his victims in far worse ways compared to anything that had been done to him. Dean didn't know how long he didn't move for, but it may have been hours. 

A squeaking of the door woke him from his memories and self-loathing, Alastair had walked in.

"Hello, boy. You done yet?"

Dean slowly raised his head and looked at the demon, "You fucking liar."

"Mm..." Alastair frowned, "Don't go calling people names, Deano, it's not very nice."

"You, LIAR!" Dean shouted in shaking fury, he reached back and grabbed hold of the first weapon he touched, and then lunged forward to stab Alastair in the chest. 

The demon's fingers clasped around Dean's wrist easily, and he clicked his tongue disapprovingly, "Nuh, uh, uh, Dean honey. Let's just talk about this. No need to get violent."

Dean wanted to scream. He wanted to rip Alastair to shreds, but all he could do was grit his teeth together and glare. 

"I've only been doing what's best for you, I knew you were too righteous a man to hurt any of these sorry bastards in any an interesting way. I had to get creative, Deano. Just like I've seen you become," He grins broadly, "You're taking after me like you took after your own father. I couldn't be more proud."

"You are turning me into a fucking MONSTER!" Dean roared, "You are nothing like my father. I don't know what you're doing, or what your endgame is, but I want no part of it. I'm done, Alastair. String me back up on that rack, I won't torture anyone else." He ripped his hand away from the demon in a huff, and shoved past through the door. 

"Deeeaaannn..." Alastair sang in response, and followed him down the cave-like hall, "Deannn... You can run but you can't hide, honey."

And Dean did just that. Small knife still in hand, he took off through the darkness, passing cage after cage after door after door. His footsteps echoed and he knew Alastair was just letting him run, but Dean didn't care. He felt complete solecism for everything he'd done or thought while he was down here. Who knew what was real and what wasn't. Everything he touched was toxic, /he/ was toxic. How could he possibly spend the rest of eternity down here? And for the first time in the past 36 years of Hell he prayed that Sam would find a way to bring him back. This life – this death – however you wanted to phrase it, was not something Dean felt he could ever come back from. 

 

~"It's only forever,  
Not long at all,  
Lost and lonely,  
That's underground –  
Underground..."~

 

"I know how you can make it better, Deano," Whispered Alastair. Dean had his forehead against the wall and the demon was standing right beside him, "It's easy, really. Just give in, Dean."

"You mean give up?" Dean tried to sound resentful, but his voice was tired. 

"No. I mean give /in/. Give in to feel better, to become better. Give in – and nothing will hurt anymore. No more burdens no more worries. You'll be free. Free yourself from your demons by becoming one. It's that easy."

"No." Dean muttered just to be contradictory. 

"What was that?"

"I said, no." Dean straightened, and scowled at Alastair, "I am not your puppet. I am not your toy. You and I are nothing alike, and we never will be. I'm done doing your dirty work – do it your fucking self!" He spit the last part out.

"Wrrrronnnggg answer, honey. Time for the Dream-Room, huh? Few trips in there and you'll be begging for me to let you torture again."

"The what?" Dean managed to not sound afraid. 

The demon smiled, put a hand on Dean's shoulder, and then he was being shoved through a dark doorway, he felt himself being swallowed by wind. He was tossed around, barely conscious. Everything was black and he yelled when he felt his skin being pulled in eighteen different directions. Someone, or something, was stretching him out like a balloon being prepared to be blown up. A thousand memories crammed themselves into his mind at the same time and then –

 

~"Daddy, daddy, get me out of here –  
Ha ha, I'm underground –  
Heard about a place today,  
Nothing never hurts again..."~

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

The next thing Dean relived was about three dozen demon-deaths. Every time he'd stabbed one and they'd crackled with orange electricity, was replaced with the human-host screaming, and blood gushing from their wounds. They would scream and scream and sob. And they would ask him – "Why? Why couldn't you save me?" – But he couldn't stop. Every time he saw black eyes flash he rushed to them and slaughtered the person, but none of them were truly monsters. Every kill he'd made was a mistake. Every one had been an innocent life taken. He was a murderer. 

He saw every person's life he'd ever saved, being completely destroyed afterwards. All of them sent to psych wards or forced into therapy by family that called them insane when they tried to explain what happened. Many of them had been convicted of the crimes the monster had committed, because the only other alternative was for them to say that monsters were real. Everyone Dean had ever saved was a victim of Dean's sloppiness and his lies. 

He witnessed every death that occurred as penance for Sam's life being given back. A hundred deaths within a few hours, knocked over like a trail of dominoes, just for the life of his brother. Balance had to be restored. Dean had saved the one person he cared about most, but at what cost? His soul hardly mattered, he'd give it up in a heartbeat, but civilian's lives? All of them torn from the world and those they love far before their time, unknowing that they had so much more potential before Dean became selfish. 

Had he ever done anything good in his life?

The next images were hazed and fuzzy, like they hadn't ever actually happened, and Dean didn't understand until he saw himself leaping off a mile-high bridge into raging water in the middle of a lightning storm. This is what he should do. This is what he's supposed to do. There he is again, digging through his trunk and pulling out a dagger, and slicing his wrists vertically – should be cut them horizontally he could could be saved, and he doesn't want that. In another scenario he throws back upwards of thirty blue-colored pills, passes out on the floor, and then retches until he's coughing up blood. Shortly after, his body spasms and he goes limp. Dean takes a gun to his head – fires – dead. He shoots an unknown clear liquid into his arm with a syringe – dead. He hangs a rope from a motel ceiling fan – steps off a chair – dead. He buys two gallons of pure bleach, downs them – dead. He turns on a bathtub tap, fills it to the brim, gets in, let's his head sink below the surface, and doesn't come back up – dead. He buys up as much liquor as he can, going to several different shops, buying the strongest booze they carried, he powers through it all, swallow after swallow – alcohol poisoning – dead. Electrocution, poison, suffocation, Carbon Monoxide, ammonia, drugs, starvation, dehydration, stepping in front of a speeding vehicle, hypothermia, ligature compression, immolation, guillotine – all of them, all those ways, Dean watches himself die.

And, well... Why not?

 

~"No one can blame you for walking away,  
Too much rejection,  
No love injection...  
It's only forever,  
Not long at all,  
Lost and lonely,  
That's underground –  
Underground..."~

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

"Is it done yet?"

"I'm working on it. His will is strong, but it's snapping."

"Good."

"The other man is contained, yes? You know how important that part is."

"... That is why I'm here..."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"..."

"He's gone!? I told you! Keep him in Heaven! Do you have the position of the Angel? If he's where I fear —"

"Last I know of is that they left the Fourteenth Sanctuary, I haven't been able to trace their path efficiently."

"Ann..."

"He's moved... He's on Earth."

"Is he with the Winchester?"

"Yes."

"Ann! What did I tell you!? Specifically, I said to keep the Angel away from the Winchester. Can you call him back now? Can you yank him back to Heaven?"

"I can only ask him, there's no guarantee he will come."

"Ann. I am so close to getting to kill him, and you let this happen!?"

"Why does it matter? Just kill the sorry guy and get it over with!"

"You don't understand, you fool, it's not that easy. If I try and finish him off the Angel may figure out the way to save him, and then where would we be!? No where! Because the war will be over before it's even been fought."

"...What do you want me to do?"

"The human is within the second-to-last cycle. He'd be dead within the next twelve hours. But thanks to you, we have only one choice. We can't risk those idiot hunters discovering the truth about the souls. We have to shut it down."

"What? The whole thing?"

"No. Just that city. Shut it off. Cut his ghost off, stop the others from rising, get them out of there. And get the Angel back in Heaven." 

"I will."

"I swear, Ann, if you can't keep that childish, celestial man under control from here on out, so help me, I will end you."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

Castiel teleports the brothers as soon as can to their motel room. Sam holds Dean up by the armpits, and with Cas's help they get him into a bed. Sam is freaking out, there's nothing he can do, Dean's practically comatose, those kids are still in danger, and there's no way he's found that can break the connection between Charlie and Dean. He sends Cas to watch the other siblings, and calls Bobby. 

"I still haven't got anything, Sam. Quit houndin' me, damnit." Bobbys voice complains. 

"Bobby, it's Dean."

Sam can imagine his surrogate father stopping whatever he's doing, sitting up, and listening intently, "What happened?"

"Charlie got to him, I think, I haven't seen her for awhile. I don't know," A pause, "He tried to commit suicide, Bobby."

"He what?"

"We were in the impala, driving to the cemetery, and he started going faster and faster, we both were almost killed."

"How'd you stop him?"

"I didn't, he stopped himself. It's like he remembered I was there and decided his death wasn't worth mine."

"Well that's at least one good thing."

"He's passed out, and I think he's dreaming, he's yelled a few times."

"What do you think 'ees seein'?"

Sam sighs knowingly, "Reasons he should die, I'd assume. Things to make him feel guilty and suicidal. It's probably what happened to the rest of the people."

"Did you check out the graveyard?"

"No, I didn't get a chance. But Cas did a quick sweep through, he said there was nothing unusual."

"What are you gonna do?"

"Why the hell do you think I called you?" Sam points out. 

"Oh. Right."

They're both quiet, the buzz of white-noise over the phone line is their only reassurance the other is still there. Sam sets the phone down on the table, and gets up to walk around. He paces, which is weird 'cus he never paces, but he needs to /think/. He can't focus on anything though, his mind is crammed with worries. He runs his fingers through his hair, and sits back down. He pulls his laptop over, and wishes he had the library of the Bunker at his disposal. He skims through all his usual sites – the reliable ones made by hunters, or museum and historical archives. He then goes back through it all again, reading more deeply, his eyes are peeled for the phrases "ghost sickness", "ghost possession", just plain old "ghost". He comes across nothing he's never heard of. 

He drinks a smoothie that came in a plastic bottle, and all he can think is that Dean would tease him about, except, Dean can't. 

It had been early 2007 when their grandfather, Henry Winchester, came crashing through their closet. Of course it took ages to get him to trust them, and Dean refused to even shake his hand, but Sam was excited to meet some of his family. Both the brothers felt a light weight lifted from their shoulders when they learned that this was why Dad had grown up without his father. There was a goddess after Henry. 

Her name was Seshat, she was the Egyptian goddess of knowledge, known as the Mistress of the House of Books, and she was intent on taking control of the Bunker. Henry only told them that she could /not/ be allowed in at any cost, and that he had come there to hand over the key. Although, seeing as she was the mistress of knowledge, she bust through the door next. Six-feet of leopard skin and angry – with a scream she obliterated their motel room. The three raced to the impala, and took off. They had to find a way to stop her from destroying the entire town in her mad search for intelligence. 

Their grandfather had brought a book with him, it held all the information they could possibly want on Seshat. The only problem, it was written in ancient Egyptian. Seshat was raging the town, barging into bookstores and antique shops, and swallowing up every object inside. After six hours of driving to the nearest University, they found a woman who could read the book, and through lots of impatient urges to /hurry the hell up/ she told them that the goddesses power was connected to an ancient stone she had supposedly carved herself. With that, the three Winchesters turned back to the online search and found with relief the stone was in a museum not two miles away. 

Over the news they heard that apparently a mad woman had taken control of the public library, killing anyone who was inside, and with some unknown power had made the place impenetrable. They found the stone, and decided with a shrug, to smash it. 

They did, but it only caused Seshat to appear before them, and without anything the brothers could do to stop her, she killed their grandfather. She wielded an eight-foot pole made of compressed animal bone. Sam recited an Egyptian holding spell from the book they'd found, and the goddess was trapped. Unable to move, and screaming, Dean tore the pole from her clawed hands and speared her through the heart. She collapsed with a pulse of golden light, that bobbed in a circle around her body before exploding and sweeping across the ground in all directions. She was dead, Henry would never be able to return home, and the brothers had just inherited the motherload of all knowledge. They weren't gonna lock it up and throw away the key, no friggin' way, but they were gonna go camp out in there and Sam was to learn as much as he could. Something was incredibly appealing about the idea of being a Man of Letters. 

 

Dean screams from his spot on the bed, and Sam leaps up, dashing over to him. Dean's hands are digging into the comforter, his fingers holding on for dear life as the rest him shakes around like invisible hands are trying to pull him off the bed. 

"Dean!" Sam pushes his brothers chest down. 

The lights in the room flicker, and explode. It's gone cold. 

Charlie appears next to the bed, she's sobbing. Well, as much as a ghost can. 

"I'm sorry Sam. I'm so sorry."

"Charlie?"

"I can't stop myself! I'm killing Dean!" Her hands are outstretched over Dean's face, right in front of Sam. 

Quickly, Sam grabs up the iron poker that is on the table from last night's scare, and he swipes it at Charlie. She disappears for half a second, and then she's back, same position. 

"Something's controlling me! It's no good! Sam..." 

"Cas!!!" Sam shouts, he needs help. Oh god, /Dean/. 

But the angel doesn't flap into the room. 

 

The room gets warm then, and Charlie is practically on fire, and fading from the world. Everything is happening so fast, and just like that Dean's eyes are snapping open, he's coughing, and gagging. He rolls over, his body shaking. 

"Dean." Sam mutters, "Dean!" He goes around to the other side of the bed, bending down to see his brother's face. He's pale, and tears are falling, but he seems to be himself. 

"I'm – I'm okay, Sammy. Where am I?" Dean chokes. 

"We're in the motel. C'mon, sit up." He helps him, and fills up a glass of water. Dean's gaze is distant. Sam gives Dean a minute before asking questions. 

"What do you remember?"

"I was driving the impala. And then –" Dean cuts himself off, shaking his head. 

"And then you saved yourself and me – Dean. Everything's gonna be fine. Charlie's gone." 

"How did you do it?" The elder brother asks weakly. 

"I didn't. She just burned up."

"But what if she comes back?"

"I don't think she will." Sam doesn't just say that as a comfort, he believes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song used was Underground by David Bowie. 
> 
> Next update should be soon! I've already written it but I want to space the posting out. 
> 
> Got a burning question or comment? You can now follow me on Twitter @funkytownangel !


	6. Back to the Bunker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean travel back home, and we take a peek at the inner-workings of Hell under the rule of Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the long wait! Hopefully my long(ish) chapters help make up for that. 
> 
> I've been busy mostly with school but I also wrote two other side fics. One is a one-shot with Dark-Dean and Cas. The other is a short Halloween story with Captain Jack Harkness and Dean/Cas!Boyfriends. 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter.

"The driver is safer when the roads are dry; the roads are safer when the driver is dry." ~Author Unknown

 

Sam drives the impala home. No matter how many times Dean says /I'm fine, Sammy/ – the younger Winchester doesn't believe him. How could he? Dean clearly saw some terrible things while he was asleep, and again the next two nights in his dreams. Dean won't talk about it, and so Sam's been reduced to glancing nervously over at his brother every three seconds to be sure he is okay. 

 

As soon Sam had been positive Dean was alright, he'd raced over to the hospital. After an awkward encounter with Kyle and Jenna's parents, three angry nurses and a big security guard, it turned out that the ghost-dog was gone, and apparently so was Cas. The damn angel had better have not left those two kids there without protection. They stayed in the city the next couple days, but it was like someone knew that the brothers were investigating and prevented themselves from being caught. Sam had gone back to the cemetery, he'd scouted every nook-and-cranny but there was /nothing/. The graves of the risen hadn't even been disrupted by anything more than the weather. 

Dean had just drank. He went out to a bar and drink. He went to a liquor store and came to the motel and drank. He wasn't facing the problems in his mind, he just pushed them far far away behind walls of ignorance and a veil of blurred uncertainty and numbness caused by the alcohol. It was easy to forget that a lot of the deaths he'd seen weren't real. It was easy for him to accept them as hundreds of others times he'd fucked up more than he'd fixed up. Charlie's voice may have been gone, but what he had seen never would stop flashing behind his eyelids. 

He had been getting better. Dean /had been getting better/. Better with accepting his faults, embracing his weaknesses, and even letting go of the shit in his past. All of that, the /good/ he had been feeling, was slipping out of reach, and he's not sure he can ever grab on again. 

He doesn't remember some of hell. He remembers all of it. Or at least he thought he did. It felt like he had forty years worth of shitty memories crammed into his skull. But after reliving that torture scenario, he's not so sure. Alastair had said something... Something about a "Dream Room". Every time Dean thinks the phrase he's hit with déjà vu, and some tip-of-his-tongue understanding. But he /doesn't/ understand. /Why/ doesn't he remember?

 

Sam drives East, passing over the Kansas border within six hours. It was 3pm when they left, and traffic had been bad. The sun has set, and the sky is black. The trees in Kansas are few and far between, all of them sparse and thin, but that doesn't stop crispy golden brown leaves from littering the curbs, and in long stretches of highway the occasional tumbleweed will roll past. The autumn here is beautiful, Sam's always thought that. The fields are rich brown and green with wheat and corn at full bloom, the grasses stand long and cheerful in the passing scenery. Sam takes a north exit off the 79, turning into the parking lot of the first motel he sees. 

It's only nine, and usually they would keep driving – Dean would take over if he hadn't already, and Sam would fall asleep and wake up in a different state – but the older brother is passed out in the backseat, a terribly hidden bottle of something alcoholic shoved between the leather cushion and his side. Sam desperately wants to help, /somehow/. He just wants Dean to /talk/ about it, is that too much to ask? He'll let Dean stew in his thoughts for a little while longer, and then he'll intervene. 

/Dean/. 

Sam parks the impala, and gets out quietly. He'll check them in and then wake Dean up. 

"Room for the night, two beds please." Sam requests, approaching the desk. The lobby is small and vacant, the older woman at the counter is greying and is wearing an ugly, orange, knitted sweater, he supposes it's meant to be seasonal. 

"Room service?"

Sam's surprised a place as small as this one even has a kitchen, "No, thanks."

"65 dollars is your total. Be checked out by 12:30 tomorrow please."

"Sure thing, thanks." Sam says again, accepting the key she offers him. 

"Room 119, walk out the door and it's on the right.

He nods, and leaves out the front. He slides into the driver's seat of the car, and reaches his arm behind the seat to prod Dean awake. He shoves his arm – no response. He pulls at his arm – nothing. 

"Dean."

Sam holds his brother's arm up in the air, and let's go. It falls, limp. And suddenly Sam's scared. He's scared Dean not going to wake up. His heart starts beating faster, and his breath is sucked away. 

"/Dean/." He says with urgency. 

A groan. 

"What, Sammy?"

Sam almost forgets to respond, he's just so /relieved/. When Dean had been speeding the impala to the trees, there'd been this manic look in his eyes, and Sam's been unable to shake it. Because, well, Dean had given up his life for Sam in a heartbeat once, and frankly, the younger can't help but worry that it's only a matter of time before Dean gives up his life /for himself/. 

"Uh, hotel. Bed. Sleep."

"Awesome." Dean groans again, sitting up, rubbing at his face, he looks like crap. 

Sam gives him the key, and then grabs up their bags from the trunk, pretending he doesn't notice the clanking sound of glass inside of Dean's. When he gets inside, his second half is laying on his bed on his stomach. And Sam's just about had it. 

"Get up, Dean."

"Why? You can 'ave the other bed."

"No, that's not why I want you to get up."

"What d'ya want?" Dean's words are slurring together. 

"We need to talk about what happened."

"I'm fine, Sam."

"Dean –" Sam starts, exasperated, "No you're not. Not at all. You've been drunk the past three days, thrown up like 6 times, and you're having nightmares! You are anything /but/ okay and I want to help you, I /need/ to help you."

"Why." Dean deadpans, unmoving. 

Sam sighs deeply, running fingers through his hair and then down his stubbly chin. 

"Because you're my /brother/, and when you look like a corpse all the time it's really hard to focus on anything else! Just – /just/ – help yourself for once, Dean. Get up, shower, stop drinking for two seconds, /please/." And just in case his point isn't getting across, "You. Are. /Scaring/ me. And I will call Bobby for an intervention so you better start spilling."

For a minute, nothing changes – and then Dean sits up, his head pounding with a headache, as he fights the urge to take a swig of brandy. Everything is spinning, he's not sure how he made it into the room or even stood up from the car. He sees two Sam's, and the entire room is blurry. It's dark, which is good, otherwise he'd hiss like a vampire and bury himself in a pillow. With an enormous amount of effort, he hands over his bottle. Sam takes it in relief, and then Dean lays back down. 

Sam doesn't comment further, just takes the half empty drink and hides it beneath his own bed as Dean rolls over. They're making progress, which is the important part. 

 

The next day Sam's up by 8 for a jog. He runs down the edge of the main road on a skinny sidewalk that he's not sure is meant for people. A few cars go by, but the actual town is about a mile off. It's windy out, coming up from the South and carrying the scent of smoke from a burning field or some such. While it may be fall, it's still nearly 90 degrees out every day, which is why a run now is the best option. He actually passes by a few other people going the opposite direction, maybe back to the hotel. 

He stops by a Mexican cart by the side of the street, and orders two breakfast burritos to go. The town is what he's used to – the main drag lined with storefronts and restaurants, a hundred more bars than anyone could ever need, and a few banks. He walks the length of it, paper bag in hand. There's other people bustling about in tank-tops and shorts, nobody in suits or heels or dresses and Sam realises that he doesn't, in fact, like cities, he likes small towns. A produce man loading carrots onto stands in front of a market has a conversation with a woman about Texan soil fertility, and a lady in a café tosses a muffin through one of the gigantic open windows to someone in an "I <3 Muffins" t-shirt with a shout of "/Like the shirt/!" and a smile. The sun's barely been up an hour, yet the whole world seems lively and happy and /Sam could get used to this/. Before he knows it, he's grinning and stepping into the muffin cafè, he orders a latte and a raspberry scone, sitting down by a ten foot long window in the front and gazing out at the street. Fresh wind, untainted by smoke, swooshes in and stirs the scent of coffee and pastries, giving the place an insanely warm-and-cozy atmosphere even though the place is spacey and made mostly of metal. 

"Hey ya' darlin', refill?" Says a cheerful barista in a brightly coloured apron, wiping down Sam's table with a cloth.

"Oh, uh, yeah sure. Thanks."

"No problemo." They spin around, and when they turn back to him there's a silver pitcher labeled "latte" in their hand. "Yer' a handsome lookin' fella, I 'aven't seen you 'round before. Passin' through?"

Sam can't help but feel a fleeting warmth in his stomach because they clearly weren't just chatting him up to be friendly, not with that hand on their hip and that devilish, yet hesitant, smile. "Yeah, leaving at noon."

"A shame."

"Yeah." Sam agrees. 

For a moment that's true, and then, it's not. No, he has a job to do. There's no time to be reminiscing about what can never be. He's come to the point where he's accepted that he can't get out of this life, and that's okay. He doesn't mind saving people, and now – that's what he has to do, save someone. Save his brother from himself. With that, Sam downs his refill, the drink scorching his mouth and seemingly burning off tastebuds from his tongue, and he pays, and leaves. He jogs all the way back, without any breaks, and breathlessly unlocks the door to the motel. Entering, he hears the shower running. Dean's up, it looks like he got some coffee from the establishment and got halfway through making some salt-rock shells. The bag of salt sits on the table, and two dozen empty containers sit in a tub beside one filled with an equal amount of finished shells. 

Sam puts the burrito bag down, and after washing his hands, completes the task. Just as he does, Dean walks out of the bathroom fully dressed. 

"Where you been?"

"I got us food." Sam points. 

"Awesome. I'm starving and the breakfast buffet table looked like crap."

"It must've been pretty bad if even you wouldn't eat it."

Dean nods, and opens the paper bag, reaching in and pulling out a butcher-paper wrapped burrito. He tears it open, taking a huge bite, and chewing solemnly. 

"We're going to the bunker right?" Dean asks, swallowing. 

"Yeah, we talked about this."

"Er, yeah, but uh, I don't really remember much about the past couple days." He admits shamefully. 

"Oh, well, yeah we're going back. It's safest there. You need to rest up, and I guess I'll look through some books to try and find out about the ghosts."

"Books? What would the Men of Letters know about what's happening now?"

"Well something really powerful has got to be doing this, maybe they have some mythology about a witch or anything else with this level of magic."

"Is it happening here, in Kansas, I mean?"

"Witchita. 15 suicides in the past three weeks."

"Shit, man."

"I know."

Sam changes out of his running outfit, and Dean is weirdly still at beginning of his food. But – that can't be?

"Dude."

"What?" Dean's annoyance is clear. 

"Are you eating my food?"

"No." He mumbles, turning away suspiciously. 

"Dude! C'mon man, really? I'm starving!"

"Well so am I! In case you hadn't noticed my stomach seems to keep emptying itself."

"And whose fault is that, I wonder?"

The irony of the conversation is gone, replacing it is a heavy tension that neither of them like. Hanging in between them is the topic still yet to be confronted – /What had Dean seen/? Dean stops eating, placing the burrito back onto it's paper, and carefully maneuvering over to his bag to rearrange some things, and putting the salt-shells away. 

Sam checks them out, returns the key, steals a banana to go with his half a burrito, and joins Dean in the impala. 

"You sure you can drive?"

Dean glares, "I'm driving my fucking Baby."

He says it with such a cold expression and intensity that it sounds sarcastic, and Sam can't help but crack a smile and chuckle a bit. "Good, good, I know she missed you."

"Damn straight she did." And the older Winchester starts the ignition, backs out of the yellow lines, and with a screech of rubber on cement the black vehicle takes off, roaring down the long stretch of road. It screams through the town and Sam's surprised they don't get pulled over, but that isn't the kinda day it is, no, this is a good day. Things are getting better again. They drive North on back roads and highways, passing through towns, a city, and dozens of miles of grass and dirt and fields. Dean's turned music on, it's not too loud or too obnoxious, and even if it had been Sam would still let him. 

}"I get up in the morning and it's just another day,  
Pack up my belongings, I've got to get away,  
Jump into a taxi and the time is gettin' tight..."{

– The song goes, and it resonates strangely with the brothers, neither of them voicing that the first two lines sounds accurate with their lives. 

}"I'm movin' on, movin' on from town to town, yeah  
I'm movin' on, baby, my feet are never touchin' the ground, yeah..."{

Sam looks at his brother, his face softening as he spots him mouthing along with the words. 

"Dean..." 

Dean shuts his mouth, motions his head in the equivalent of an eye roll, and says nothing. 

"What happened?"

"Charlie."

"I know that, but –"

"But what did I see? What do I dream about? Why have I barely been sober all week? Shit, Sammy, I saw shit." Dean explains without explaining anything. 

"You can't do this! Okay? Not again, not this time. Don't you remember? You were going to kill yourself. And you didn't care. And I had a front row seat to –"

"Do you think I don't know that? Do think I don't hate myself even /more/ for almost bringing you down with me? I hate that Sam, I /hate that/."

"Tell my why."

"Why what?"

Sam seethes with frustration. 

"Right. Why I've been drowning my sorrows?" Dean questions with sarcasm, "I – I can't."

"Why the hell not?" Sam brings both hands over his face, rubbing his eyes and tugging back his hair, "Okay, I get that maybe you don't want me to worry. That you don't like me to think you need helping, but doing /this/ – bottling it all up – Makes me worry a /thousand/ times more. You need someone to listen to you. You need help by someone who understands and doesn't think you're crazy and who /cares/ about you, okay? And if it's not Bobby or Cas or anyone else, let it be me. Huh? /Let it be me/."

Dean shakes his head, and Sam wants to scream. To shake his brother back and forth and knock some freaking /sense into him/. 

The song finishes with a –

}"I guess I am close to you  
I'm movin'."{

The next one begins, and Sam's immediately confused because there's no way this is Dean's music, it must be the radio or something, but he's fairly certain that Dean had put in that Bad Company cassette. Dean appears equally confused, however, cus he's messing with the buttons and trying to change the station, but the radio /isn't on/, and the cassette is over, and Dean's just taken it out to try and stop the music. But it keeps going. 

}"There comes a time, a time in everyone's life,  
Where nothin' seems to go your way,   
Where nothing seems to turn out right,  
There may come a time, you just can't seem to find your place..."{

"What the hell?" Dean grumbles, slamming a firm fist onto the top of the radio for good measure, but nothing changes, not even a blip in the music. 

}"For every door you open, seems like you get two slammed in your face,  
That's when you need someone, someone that you can call,  
And when all your faith is gone  
Feels like you can't go on..."{

"What is this crappy deep-dark-hippy music? What the hell'd you do to Baby?" Dean accuses Sam angrily. 

"I didn't do anything!" Sam laughs, because he needs to. Because they both need to. Because the song is entirely /not/ Dean, and because Sam truly didn't do anything. 

"I swear to /God/ – if you don't fix this I'll stop this car, and you'll get your ass shoved out an' you'll be /walking/ to Lebanon." The elder threatens, two hands gripping the wheel in irritation, as though he's holding back from giving Sam a good smack across the face. 

"You know, I think it a sign, Dean. Listen to it –"

}"Now i remember all too well,  
Just how it feels to be all alone,  
You feel like you'd give anything  
For just a little place you can call your own,  
That's when you need someone, someone that you can call,   
And when all your faith is gone,  
Feels like you can't go on  
— Let it be me..."{

"Let it be me... Let it be me..." Sam sings along as Dean continues grimacing. 

"Fine! Fine! Whatever! Just shut it up or so help me –" And the song turns to static, and then – to silence. 

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

It's a slow day in Hell. 

Crowley sits on his throne, legs crossing, and a glass of whiskey in hand. He swirls it, bored. 

"Joseph."

"Yes sir?" A short man with a long brown beard hurries forward, he's wearing a semi-ridiculous outfit with puffy sleeves and a black vest atop the shirt – not to mention the skinny jeans and boots with three inch heels. 

"Yes, /Captain/."

"Yes, Captain?" He amends, the guy is a complete idiot. He cowers at the King's mere presence, which, if he's being honest with himself, is exactly why Crowley has called him up from the Torture Rooms. He's not torturing anyone down there, as a side note, nah, he's on cleanup duty. 

"I need more whiskey. Find me a 1978 Glencraig bottle."

The stupid demon looks up nervously, hands clasping and unclasping behind their back as they bite their lip. 

"Well?" The King's eyebrows raise. 

"Er, Sir, we, um, are, uh, I mean Captain, we're, uh....."

Crowley squints, "Avast ye, you better get your dungbie out of here and get me a black jack full of booze asap or you'll be dancing the hempen jig by the end of the day."

"Uh. Uh. Yes Sir, Captain, Sir, I'll... Do that..." They bow their head, and take off, shoes clanging on the stone floor. The large wooden doors squeak open, and then shut again. 

Crowley throws back the last of his drink, shoves a hand in one pocket, and hops up, strutting down the aisle leading to his throne. Several demons line either side, all dressed in pirate outfits. A few sport eyepatches, a couple have hooks, most lazily slapped on a bandana and a black hat and called it good. The King himself wears a red hat, with a long, ancient white feather protruding from the top and falling down the side, tickling his ear. A matching blood-coloured jacket with elegant coat tails, and his black boots have an inch of heel. He even pierced his ears and has gold ringlets hanging from them. Like he said before, it's a slow day in Hell. 

A slow, several weeks in Hell. 

No, dear Lucifer, a slow /fucking four months/ in Hell. What with Lilith gone, rule had fallen to Crowley, he's been short-changed, so many demons had fallen at the hands of the damn Winchesters, more were dying than being made, and that screwed a lot up. Most the red-eyed Crossroad demons were fine, but the other, black-eyed demons? Are practically an endangered species. It's not like the King could just yank a thousand demons up from the Pit, it didn't work like that. The only way they can get up is if they're /strong/ enough, /dark/ enough, and clearly not many are yet. So he has to play the waiting game. 

And /so what/ he had all the remaining demons decorate the Throne Room like a pirate ship? With nets hanging from the ceilings and crates of rotting apples littering the floor. There's barrels of beer and anchors hanging down, a few crabs scuttling about in the sand covered portion of the floor. Yes, it's pointless, and yes, they all moaned and groaned about it, but hey. He's the King of fucking Hell, and if he wants a pirate themed room, /deal with it/. The best part is he can refer to them all as "scallywags" and use other pirate terms that few of them actually understand. There's one chick, with red dreadlocks, that's really into it though. Speaking the natural sea-man tongue flawlessly, and tromping around with a long rusted sword hanging from her belt. Her name's Theo, or Theodesia, apparently she'd been a "boat-bitch" (her words not his) when she'd died, gotten stabbed through the back in the tussle and bustle of an Ocean War back in the seventeenth century. 

She is pretty cool, certainly one of Crowley's favourites. He doesn't trust her though, nah, never trust anyone – that's stupid. To trust is to die. That being said, he did pin her as Leader for about a thirty demons that are currently spreading rumours of a Halloween tradition in three dozen towns in South Dakota. Though a really bland place, it is a popular hunting ground for soul-sellers. It's September, so a few well placed posters about "making deals with the devil" as a "party joke" for the 31st of next month could gain them some much needed souls. In ten years, that is. 

But Crowley's taken to turning a blind-eye at demons who have called up the Hellhounds early. Who is he to stop the intake of power?

"Theo..." Crowley begins, turning on the woman standing behind him, "Is that blood on your bloody sword?"

She grins, a gold tooth showing, "Ay, indeed Cap'in. A feller was being awfully disagreeable las' night."

Yeah she's cool, and kinda scary. The King's got to be careful, while there may not be many people around, any one of them could easily start up their own clan and push him off his mountain. But /he's/ King of the rock, and /no one/ will take it from him. Yesterday, Gavin, or Guthrie or Gunther – it doesn't matter, the point is that old man had been spreading rumours about a supposed affiliation with himself and those stupid human brothers. 

Well, to be fair, the G-man's accusations were true, Crowley had sold Lilith out to Dean and that Angel. Crowley hadn't ever really wanted the Devil out of the cage, nah, he doesn't want competition, Lilith had been plenty. 

"Captain...?" A new voice says, their tone is fearful, disrupting him from his day-dreaming. 

"Yes? Joseph? Good you're back." Crowley notes, "And? Do you have what I sent you for?"

"Um, no, Sir," Joseph's only got his head stuck into the room, the rest of his body hidden by the door. 

"Come on in here." Crowley gestures him inside, semi-amused by the fact the guy came back at all. He wouldn't of thought he'd have the guts. 

"Er," Joe begins, coming inside and holding two jugs of whiskey.

"What are those?" The King queries in a dangerous tone.

"I have a 1979 bottle! Or a 1977! But, erm, you're out of 1978... Captain." He squeaks, eyes flickering around everywhere. 

Crowley tilts his head to the side, surveying the situation. He just loves messing with this guy. How in Lucifer's name was he able to get out of the Pit?

"Theo, honey..." Smiles the King crookedly, "Grab the hempen halter, will ya' matey?"

"No problem Cap'in."

She slides out of his peripheral view, and then back in holding a length of rope tied in a noose. The dudes a demon, it's not like he's gonna die, but it'll hurt his meatsuit, and any yells or shouts will echo off the chamber's walls until Crowley tires of him and sends him back to his normal job. It'll be music to his ears. Just no whining. Any of that will result in Crowley pulling his double-barrelled pistol from its holster and shooting Joseph's knee caps. Joe looks terrified, he's practically shaking, the jugs in his white-knuckle grip are trembling. 

The King signals to a blond demon, who grabs the whiskey and tucks them up under his arms. 

"Theo, please do yourself the pleasure of hanging this guy from the rafters," He points upwards, "I want to hear him scream." With that, Crowley turns on his boot, a bounce in his step on his way back to his throne. "You –" He points to the dude with his booze, "Pour me a glass. And the rest of you, better get a jig going, I suspect we'll be having some live music very shortly." He smirks. 

 

He would of rather of played darts in the guy's chest. He didn't scream or moan or even sob, Joseph had just whimpered and dripped tears on the floor. It was wretched – and so within an hour he was tossed back to the Torture Rooms and Crowley was bored, /again/. 

He now stands outside a tavern in southern South Dakota, a rainbow flag is streaming in the wind, hung by a front window. The streets have puddles, everything is wet, he's not in his pirate costume anymore, mind you, but he's beginning to think he'd rather be back downstairs drinking the '77. 

"Hello."

Says a voice from behind, he spins around, not expecting a female, but he quickly covers his surprise. 

"Hello." He repeats.

"Nice earrings." She nods at him.

"Oh, yes, these ol' things."

The woman standing before him is ageless in beauty. Not a line on her pale face. She has high cheekbones, long black hair hanging over either shoulder, and is wearing a basque-waisted gown, also black. It's out of style, by like, fifty years. She has a shawl over her shoulders, and her lips are red. That's not what's alarming, however, it's the fact that her eyes are red. But not like a crossroad demon, no, it's just the iris that's red. She appears to be a normal human, but she's very obviously not human. It's impossible for the King to say /what/ she is exactly. Not a demon, not a human, certainly not an angel, but she radiates power, something as old as the earth. 

"Who're you?" Crowley asks. 

"Why, your Highness, is that any sort of greeting?" Her accent isn't inherently American nor is it English – the words "posh" and "classic" and "snobby" come to mind. 

"How did you get that message into Hell?"

"A girls gotta have her secrets." She says slyly. 

"Don't I know it." A smile slips onto his lips, she's kinda fun. "We goin in?"

"To 'The Male Box'? No, I don't think so, we'd better keep this conversation out here."

"Yawn. Get to it then, I've got Hell waitin' for me at home."

There's an eerie smoke surrounding her, plumes of it drifting into the air, like she's burning – on fire. Her hands are gloved, and she's wearing choker around her neck. Crowley walks a bit closer, planting his feet firmly on the ground, hands in pockets, and cocks his head to show he's listening. 

"I need your help." The lady says. 

"And what can I get in return?"

"Hm, ha, they said you'd get straight to the point."

"Who did?"

"A little bird." She teases. 

"Hate those butter-faced pricks." Complains the King. 

"I'm offering you a way to get more demons. To turn them faster than ever, not only that –" The dark woman begins circling him dramatically, "They'll be stronger, faster, more difficult to kill. I'll open up the Pit so wide demons will come pouring out."

"Huh." The King clears his throat, thinking, "I don't want thousands of demons trampling over my kingdom causing problems, they'll have me dumped in the sewer for keeping the Devil in his cage."

"I can make them unwaveringly loyal to you, if that helps."

"You can't do that." Crowley states as a fact – in disbelief. 

"No? Highness, my power is far greater than your puny mind can comprehend. I don't need your help. But I like you. And I wanted to be polite. I /can/ make them loyal, all I need is a drop of your blood."

"You could do anything with that. You could kill me!" The King reminds her. 

"Yes, of course I could, but I won't."

"Well that's a load of my mind." The demon mocks. 

"How about – a drop for a drop?"

"You mean... We'll be the blood-brothers?"

"Whatever you want to call it, I don't really care, can we just get on with this please?" The woman sighs, annoyed. 

"Sure, darling. But what do you want in return?"

"I want assistance."

Crowley waits for a further explanation.

"My family. My siblings, they are... You could say trapped. I want to save them. I need demons to do that. In return for providing you with a way to get hundreds of new demons very quickly, I want, say... 50 for myself. Like minions that'll do my bidding for a short time, then you can have them back."

"How do I know that you won't take them and flip around on me? How do I know you don't want my throne?"

"I want my family. That's all."

"Who's your family? And who are you?"

"Oh, your majesty..."

"I won't agree to anything unless you give me every gritty detail."

She surveys him, standing still. Sprinkles of rain are dampening her clothes, and her Smoke is pulling her a thousand different directions. It's takes all her will to not leave this reality, it's painful and exhausting to be here. 

"Before God created the first Angels, he created the first monsters –"

"Nope." The King interrupts, "I don't do stories like that. Only the ones that start with 'once upon a time' and end with a 'happily ever after'."

"If that's the way you want to hear it –" she glares, "Fine."

She starts over, with a sigh, "Once upon a time, God tried to create the first Angels, but not everything went to plan."

"Better." He approves. 

"It better be."

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~~•~•~•~

 

Sam and Dean pull into the parking garage of the Bunker at about 7:30pm. 

The impala had twice more played that song, causing both times for Dean to literally pull over, shut the car off, and /the song would still play/. It was driving him (no pun intended) up the wall. 

Dean slams his door shut, stretching his arms and legs. 

"Grab the bags, will ya? I'm gonna go start some food."

"I think whatever we got in there's gotta be bad by now. " Sam tells him. 

"Yeah, but those frozen dinners are still 100%." Dean reminds him with a smile, walking backwards to the door. 

"Those are gross, man. They're like 3000 calories a box!"

"Who's counting?" Dean shrugs with a laugh, unlocking the handle and going into their home. 

Oh man, it's great to be home. Dean feels pure happiness to be here. The book shelves, the glowing table with a map imprinted on it, the 1950's furniture combined with technology beyond the old Men's time. The books in the cases lining every wall, and the crates of files and papers and weird trinkets. He flicks on all the lights, it makes him unnecessarily nervous to have even a shadow lingering in the corner. The light makes him feel safe. He enters the kitchen, grabs two boxes out of the freezer, and rips the lifs off part way. He puts them in the microwave he added in here, and sets them for four minutes. He's starving. 

He retrieves two antique plates from the cupboard, spinning one around in his hands. He hears Sam clomp inside – Dean knows Sam is just trying to help. He's doing exactly what Dean would should their places have been swapped. God, why did they always have to deal with "talk about your feelings" psychotherapist crap? The microwave beeps at him – flinching away from the hot steam, Dean dumps one of the tubs of hot noodles onto a plate. It has some chicken and limp asparagus in it as well, which he freshens up with the juice of a mostly-okay lemon from the counter. He puts it on the table, and fixes up the other dish the same way. He slides a record onto the turntable, and something jazzy plays. Trumpets, an upbeat piano, it makes the tired Winchester feel better, or at least perks up his mood. 

"Soups on!" He shouts loudly, hoping his voice will reach Sam. It does, and in a few moments the taller brother steps down into the kitchen, smiles fondly at the food arrangement, and sits in his seat. Sam's got a brown bottle of Dos Equis, and Dean's clicking open a sad can of Miller Lite. Or it's sad to him, but eases the younger's mind as it tells him the other is trying to heal from everything. 

"So, on a scale of 1 to 10, how gross do you think this meal is?"

Sam chuckles, scraping up another bite onto his fork, "To be honest, it's only a three. It's not bad at all..."

"A little lemon and a lotta salt, the perfect pairing."

"Oh, so /that's/ what that smell is, I thought you had /cleaned/ something in here for once."

Dean wipes his mouth with a napkin, "Nuh, uh, Sammy. You know the rules, the cook cooks, and the eater does the dishes." 

"Well isn't that awfully the "little red hen"?" 

"Better than that damn porridge story, that freakin' thing has always bugged me."

"Goldilocks and the Three Bears?"

"Yeah," Dean shudders, "/Porridge/. Ew. It ain't good, hot, cold, al dente, room temp – nuthin', nada. Gag." He aims his utensil down his throat to demonstrate his point. 

"Whatever you say man," Sam laughs, "You don't mind oatmeal!"

"That's an entirely different thing!"

"No it's not! They're identical."

"No! No, nonono, no. /Oatmeal/," He clarifies, "Is made of /oats/, it has bits of grain and there's sugar and cinnamon on it."

"Only that dessert oatmeal has that, which is the reason why you like it in the first place." Sam mumbles under his breath, aware he's being talked over. 

"/Porridge/, is disgusting. It looks like puke. Smells like it – gahh, it's a big mish-mashy pile of /ick/."

"Okay, okay, I get it, they're different. Can I eat my meal without you talking about this please? You're putting me off my food."

"'Cus you'd be upset to miss my masterpiece, I knew it."

Sam just huffs a laugh, shaking his head in unconcern. 

Dean makes himself another bin of the pasta, and Sam's fork sneaks a few bites. They eat quietly after that, enjoying music that /isn't/ sending some weird telepathic message to Dean telling him to chat about his problems. So, perhaps it's that the pressure is off his back that gives him the courage to bring it up himself. 

"Charlie. I saw her, um," The elder opens the topic, and Sam looks up, paying close attention, "I saw her die. A dozen times, the same way, over and over again. But, uh, I saw how I could save her. I saw myself finding a way to take her place, snagging that fucking knife from her hand, I saw how I /should/ of saved her."

"And then, I saw Hell. Memories from back then, some of the worst in those forty years..." Dean sips his low-alcohol beer, "It was rough, Sam, it was real rough. I thought I'd... Gotten over it. Or at least, ya' know, shoved it far enough back that I wasn't thinking about it every goddamn minute. And now it's like... All that shit. All that I /did/ is resurfacing and I – I didn't know how to deal with it."

Sam tenses. 

"So yeah, I drank to wash my problems away. You happy?"

"Do you feel better?"

"I – I don't know. I just," Dean sighs, "I just don't want to think about it anymore."

The other man nods, "That's fine, Dean. That's fine as long you 'don't think about it' by doing anything else but drinking yourself speechless. You wanna, I don't know, talk about anything that you've been dreaming of?"

/You mean my self-decapitation method? No thanks/, Dean thinks. 

"No. It's all a lot of blood and guts, teeth and bones, it all mixes together into this one, huge, fleshy monster screaming at me." Dean invents. Sam nods, believing him. 

"You know Charlie wasn't your fault, right? You have to understand that by now." Sam checks, though he's fairly certain Dean's still blaming himself. 

"This is how it works –" Dean chooses to explain the situation. The situation that's literally /always/ the situation. He sits back in his chair, his tin can empty. "– You can say a hundred thousand times that somebody /dying/ isn't my fault, but just 'cus you believe that, and just 'cus it /may/ be true, doesn't give me any reason to take what you tell me to heart or mind. You're my brother," He says like that resolves anything, "You're going to look at me and see the good no matter what. So I can't trust what you say to be the truth."

"You can't trust what you tell yourself either!" Sam justifies, "You lie to yourself all the time! If you're going to listen to lies, listen to/mine/, okay? Because at least my lies are kind –Yours are cruel."

Dean avoids his go-to routine of an eye-roll-beer-swig combo, and gives his brother a good, hard look. And, hell, why not?

"I know. You're right. Of course you're right. I'll try, okay? I'll try."

That's all Sam's been wanting, and Dean's never seemed more sincere in all his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs referenced, in order of appearance:  
> Movin' On — Bad Company   
> Let it Be Me — Ray Lamontagne  
> (The Jazz song) Chicago — Benny Goodman
> 
> Follow me on Twitter @funkytownangel! 
> 
> Question of the chapter: What song is currently stuck in your head?
> 
> Answer of the chapter: Help You, by Louden Swain. 
> 
> Thank y'all ;)


	7. Oh where for are thou, Castiel?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brothers are home and researching like crazy. Castiel is still missing, and they want to solve a real case before any other annoying crap goes down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: a death scene.

“Las Vegas looks the way you’d imagine heaven must look at night.” - Chuck Palahniuk's “Invisible Monsters”

 

 

"I give up." Dean announces as he shuts the garage door behind him. Sam glances up from his laptop, then back down again. 

"On what?"

"That damn radio is unfixable. I put in some Nirvana and all I got back from it was some Coldplay." Dean complains, sitting across from Sam at one of the long, wooden tables. 

The younger smirks, "What song?"

"'Fix You'," Murmurs the other. 

Sam cackles, "God, what a sense of humour that car has."

"This is /not/ funny, my Baby is /sick/ and I don't know how to help her."

"Maybe it's not meant to be." He offers, typing something quickly, scanning over a page on the web. 

Dean's been messing with the car all day. He rewired the entire radio system – twice. He doesn't understand what the hell is wrong with it. This is something new, at least he's pretty sure, when was the first time it had played some weird song? He can only recall it from two days ago, on their way back home. But maybe it had started before then and Dean had never noticed. It's impossible to say, but he'll get to the bottom of it eventually. 

"What do you got?" 

"Uhhh..." Sam says, going to a bookmarked page, "Not a lot. I mean, a little, some of it looks pretty close to what we're dealing with. It's pretty hard to say though, we don't have much to go on besides a ton of suicides and some ghosts."

"Hit me with somethin'."

"Well, the first thing I saw was something about some Celtic-witch-monster-people. According to Irish folklore, they were called Sluaghs, they were spirits that had been sinners during life, they would hunt down people to collect their souls..."

"Collect them for what?" Dean opens up a leftover box of pizza sitting nearby. 

"Um, it doesn't say specifically, but they would go after family members. Maybe they didn't want to be alone? Or it could have just been a natural angry association – if they had been bad people they may not have had very good relationships with people."

"That doesn't really go with what we got, though. Unless there's more?" Dean folded his slice in half, taking a huge mouthful. 

"The spirits would rise from the west, which could match our situation if the west coast had been affected first, but it wasn't – it was just kinda everywhere."

The elder sighs, "Okay, cross that choice off the list... Want any?" He points to one of the last pepperoni-topped triangles. Sam shakes his head. "Find any other possibilities?"

"Uh, yeah, one. But what did you find in the books?"

Dean groans, recalling how he'd gotten tricked into being the one to search through the Men of Letter's files. /Damn you, rock-paper-scissors/. He stands and lumbers off to his room, reaching in and pulling out the book he found and some papers. He doesn't bother worrying about the pizza grease sure to be staining the leather of the novel. 

"Hecate." He announces, re-entering the main room and dropping his collection onto the table with a thud. "Goddess of moon, magic – or witchcraft – crossroads, and most importantly, ghosts and necromancy. Sound like a possibility?"

Sam nods, impressed by his brother's work, "She's Greek right?"

"Mm hm, her Roman equivalent is Trivia. Bet she likes Tuesday's at the tavern." Dean jokes. 

The other snorts a bit. 

"She was known as Mother of Angels and the Cosmic World of Souls," Dean explains, leaning back in his chair and flipping to his bookmark to read, "She bestowed gifts to those who sought humility, honour, and upheld honesty in business and war. People called upon her for daily blessings and to bestow prosperity to the entire family." He takes a breath, "But here's the real kicker – if someone in the household was found to be at fault –" He set the book down, leaning forward and tapping his finger against the picture of Hecate. It depicted her standing hugely above an open-roofed house, peering inside. One of the figures inside the home was shown to be filled with darkness like black smoke, and their eyes were filled in darkly unlike the others' in the drawing. Dean turns the page, and now Hecate is reaching down to the dark man and appears to ripping his soul, or his spirit, from inside of him. 

" – Lying, cheating, any sort of guilt that they didn't accept – Hecate would show them their sins until it drove them mad, and then she'd take their lives and their souls."

"So in our case," Sam processes the information, "All those people who didn't take responsibility or didn't feel guilty about a death they indirectly caused, would be seen as guilty by Hecate?"

"As best as I can tell, yeah."

"But, um," He nervously breaches the subject, "You /did/ feel guilty about Charlie, so why'd she go after you?"

Dean bites back the words /because I fucking deserve it/, and instead says, "Maybe she goes after some people who /know/ their guilty too."

Sam stays silent, not wanting to get into an argument. Dean clears his throat to change the subject, "So, uh, you found something else too, right?"

"Yes, actually." Sam sits up eagerly, going back to the page on his laptop in anticipation – he hopes Dean will see the connection like he does. "The Witch of Endor, lived during the 17th century. She made deals with everyone from Kings to peasants, but specifically people she felt were guilty of something. She had a grudge against people who engaged in unfairness, lies, backstabbing, disrespect, down to just plain rudeness – except those were exactly the sort of people she made agreements with. The major thing I see is..." He clicks a link to a separate story, "She made a deal with a guy named King Saul, he wanted to speak to the prophet Samuel –"

"You?"

"Yeah Dean, me." Sam says sarcastically, then continues, "The prophet could supposedly tell the King how to defeat another kingdom, but once he got the information, he killed Samuel – not wanting his enemy to use the guy too."

"The Witch knew what had happened, and though it wasn't directly linked. At the time, apparently the King had "hauntings from his past" spook him to death, or in other words, to suicide. And though the Witch could never be directly linked to it, she had certainly been an accessory in the matter."

Dean nods along, finishing his third slice of food, and washing it down with Sam's glass of water. "What happened to her?"

"Uh, three months later, she was burned for practicing Witchcraft by the King's son."

"How could it be her, then? That was like, what? 400 years ago?" He yanked the laptop to himself, stealing it and scrolling. 

"Hey! Give that back – a little under 400, but yeah." Sam pulled his computer from his brother's grip. "She could've easily escaped and her death was recorded as legit anyway, or she coulda tricked some people – any number of things. There's a decent chance that if it /is/ her, she left behind a false death, and started again, sound familiar?"

Dean grunts, "How can we find out for sure if it's her?"

"She was associated with hot weather, sunshine and summer to be exact, it would explain the timing."

"That doesn't help find her."

"No..." Then Sam adds, a sliver of hope and minor desperation leaking into his tone, "But if she requires summer for her work, maybe when Autumn officially starts on the 23rd the deaths will stop all on their own."

"Even if they do, she could easily come back next year." Dean reasons. 

"We don't know that, maybe she only needs them every few hundred years to stay alive."

"But that doesn't mean it's okay," He reminds him, "She can't just kill a ton of people whenever she feels like it, or needs to, or whatever. Either way, we'd still have to track her down and kill her."

"I agree," Sam lets him know, "All I'm saying is is that if she does stops killing entirely in a few days, then we have time, and we don't need to hunt her down this very second."

Dean stares. 

"You don't want me going back on the field, do you?"

"What? Dean, no, I never said that."

"No, but that's what you're thinking isn't it?" He glares, getting pissed off real quickly, "You're worried about me getting risky and pulling some suicide mission, /aren't/ you?"

"Of course not!" Sam lies, he /really/ doesn't want to argue about this right now, "I just think you've had a rough past couple days and might like some time to relax. Besides, we haven't heard anything from Cas and who knows? Maybe he found something."

"We didn't ask him to help us solve the case, Sam, we just asked him to babysit some damn kids. We just /use/ him for our benefit and he doesn't ever get anything in return!" Dean says heatedly, standing up. /Woah, where'd that come from/? It's the first time he's even recognised those thoughts as valid, but it /is/ true, isn't it? What had they ever done for Cas? Yet /he's/ always been there, seeming to just lurk behind a door, waiting to be invited in to assist them. 

Sam looks at his brother, and he sees a something new there. A different sort of flustered shame that you might see on a girl kissing her best friend's crush. He speaks softly, "We don't /use/ him, Dean." 

Dean just shakes his head, spinning around. "That's /exactl/y what we do." He mutters, not sure if Sam heard or not. 

"When it comes down to it, we got his back, and he's got ours." The younger assures them both. 

/That's not true/, is all the elder can think. "No." He states, facing Sam, "No. When it comes 'down to it', when things get to the nitty-gritty and the choice comes between helping or saving Cas, and taking down an evil while we have the opportunity, we will always choose to stop the evil! And him? He's always chosen to protect us. So don't tell me we don't use him, because that's all we've ever fucking done."

"Dean –" Sam starts, but the other man holds up a hand to stop him. 

"I don't want to talk about this. I'm going to go shower, you talk to Bobby."

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

"You should have /seen/ his face." Chuckled Gregory McGuire as he unlocked the door to his apartment, "He looked like I smacked him with a dead fish he was so shocked."

The tall, burly man closed his door. He'd just gotten home from work at The Mirage, a big-time Vegas Casino.

He was President of the "special client" portion of the hotel, meaning he approved the design and cost of the largest, most expensive suites in the place. They were regularly changed, a new room for every customer who came through custom-built to their preferences. And he'd just fired the Vice-President. Why? Because he'd been overstepping his bounds, making choices outside the realm of possibility and budget. At least that's what Gregory told his own superior, when in reality the poor guy had only been doing /too well/. If the dude made any other "inspiring" changes to the hotel /he'd/ be promoted to president and Greg would get the boot. And that was /not/ happening. 

Greg opened his refrigerator, retrieving a carton of vodka-eggnog he'd ordered from a seasonal catalog online. He chugged half of it straight from the bottle, "No, no. Yeah, I'll be there." He said into the phone, "Will Pam be there? Awesome. Oh god no, not Harry too? Jesus the guy is /relentless/. Okay, I got to go Bernie. Right. See you later. Bye." 

He hung up with a grunt, smirked, and made his way to his black leather couch. He flipped the television on, some late night program came on with a dude interviewing some full-of-themselves celebrity. Gregory polished off his drink, and popped up the footrest, leaning back to sleep. It was just after twelve, and outside his windows the Strip glowed with multi-coloured lights. 

After thirty minutes, the bearded dude was passed out, a pillow snuggled against his chest. The tv went black for a few seconds, then switched back on. 

The screen was red, a cartoon cat sitting in the centre, smoking a long pipe with a monocle over one eye. A clinking sound began as a sort of background music, a piano added in, and then – a saxophone lept into the mix. The cat pranced about the screen, passing between doors in a corridor while being chased by a short man in blue – very 'scooby-doo' style. And the music kept going. 

Bud dum,  
Bud dum,  
Bud dum bud dum bud dum bud dum bud dahhhhh.....

The apartment door unlocked with a jiggle of the handle, and a seven foot tall cat, walking upright, stepped inside. It had a long, curling tail, yellow eyes with circular pupils, and thick black eyebrows. It meandered over to Gregory, who was snoring and entirely oblivious to the waking world around him. The cat held a paintbrush in one hand, and was twirling it mischievously. It walked to stand between the couch and the television, and grinned cruelly down at the man. It licked it's lips, revealing sharp teeth. It bared them ravenously, and unsheathed it claws. Then, in an instant, it was attacking Gregory. 

Greg awoke, a strangled shout escaped him but to no avail, the feline had already begun digging its claws into his sides, tearing at the white shirt and the soft skin below it. Blood poured, and the cat ripped at the man's the throat as he continued to scream. He was dead in three seconds flat. The animal was lapping up the pooling blood with an unnaturally long tongue, enjoying their treat. When they were satisfied, and the corpse had been efficiently taken care of, the cat placed a hand in the still-warm red, congealing liquid. He took his soaked paw and pressed it against the wall, leaving behind a perfect print. His tail held the paintbrush now, and with a few brisk strokes, it left a message on the pearl-white walls of the seventeenth floor:

"THE PANTHER WAS HERE"

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

Dean's shower is long and hot, and while the water pressure may be immaculate, it does nothing to calm him down. He doesn't understand why he all of a sudden got so worked up over Cas. The more he thought about it the more confused he became. Sam barely even /mentioned/ Cas and he'd gone off in a tantrum. How long had he been suppressing his shame? However, in all fairness, Cas couldn't be doing this all for Dean. No, when the Angel's blade had sunk into Uriel's back that had become clear. Cas has free will, as he should, and he just happens to see eye-to-eye with them two humans. Nothing's wrong with that. 

But none of that changes the fact that they /would/ put a monster's death in front of the life of Castiel. 

/I don't have to/. 

And that's a scary thought. Dean doesn't have to pick it that way, he could just as easily choose Cas. 

/I could pick one damn Angel over saving the world/. 

/But would I/?

Dean takes a breath, resting his forehead against the tile wall of the shower. The steam cleans out his lungs, warming him from the inside out. So much is going on, and he hasn't the faintest how they're going to fix it. A horrible thought occurs to him, and he snaps his eyes open, /what if Castiel didn't leave the hospital, what if he was taken./ His heart stops for a moment as it dawns him that whatever witch or goddess is doing this, they could have kidnapped Cas in order to stop him from helping the brothers. Maybe because Cas is an Angel the evil was intimidated. For all Dean knows, Cas could be dead. 

/Castiel, goddamn it, if you're okay you better freakin' send down a sign/. 

He hopes the angel will hear him. He /needs/ Cas to be okay. This isn't the first time Dean has called on Cas in the past week. The first time, was after he found out the angel had abandoned those kids. 

/Cas, what the hell man/? He had thought, /You can't just fly the coop like that. Those kids could've gotten killed on your watch, for Christ's sake/. Of course, Dean hadn't been at his best state of mind at the time. And he hadn't really been praying, he was just pissed and upset and half drunk. 

The second time had been when he'd been throwing up his guts for an hour straight, his head pounding, and his vision blurred. Every inch of him had ached and burned, everything was fuzzed and confused. /Cas, I feel half dead, come heal me, will ya? C’mon, wings. I thought Heaven was pretty chill lately. I feel like shit and I think Sam’s worried. I’m mostly fine, or at least that’s what I’m tellin’ myself. Where are you? What was the angel emergency/?

The last time he’d mostly just been complaining, he’d been sitting on his bed doing research about what creature was causing the phantoms and deaths. There was a bottle of lite-alcohol beer in his hand, a bowl of pretzels nearby. He’d never minded crumbs until the actual lying-down-in-a-pile-of-food-scraps came around, then he’d have to make the effort of standing and shaking out his sheets to get them off. Dean had been flipping through the 8th volume of History of Ghosts, dust making his nose itch, and then he’d tossed it to the side, suppressing a groan. /Wherever you are, I hope you’re looking into this crap and having a little more luck. Hey, how about you pop in here sometime soon and have all the answers so I don’t got to do this any more. ‘Cus frankly, research is a bitch/.

Dean doesn’t even know why he’s bothered trying to contact Cas at all, but then he remembers. /Oh, of course, ‘cus Cas has always come when I’ve called/. That’s probably what hurts the most. And what scares him the most, because if Cas has consistently made an effort to show up in the past, and he hasn’t recently after Dean’s calls… The angel must be hurt. Or trapped. Or – or dead.

/Shit/.

He shuts off the water, dries off quickly, and goes to his room to dress in the usual flannel and denim jeans. He’s in a rush, he has to tell Sam his worries about Cas and /Oh my God if that guy has been taken than what in the hell can we even do about it/? 

“Sam! Sammy, where are you?” Dean searches through the war room, to the kitchen, and at last spots his brother dozing on the couch in the sitting room. “Sam, I think Cas is in trouble.”

The younger jerks awake as the older shakes his leg. “What? What’s going on?”

"I realised... I realised that we don't know what happened to Cas." Dean tells him, strangely breathless.

"Huh?" Sam rubs his face, sitting up and yawning. 

"What if they took Cas." Dean pushes. The other stares for a moment, then his mouth opens as the pieces click into place. 

"Oh. /Oh/." Sam says less than elegantly. 

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

Castiel can feel Dean's concern thundering about inside him like a storm. Lightning bolts of fear that are not his own make the angel shaky and on edge. Cas peeks a sideways glance at Naomi who has been watching him like a hawk. 

/You are not a human/, she had reminded him before. 

"Naomi." Cas says hesitantly, then louder, "Naomi?" 

"What is it Castiel? Do you see them returning?" 

"No, I – I have some business to take care of."

She huffs, "No, you are not allowed to visit the Winchester boys."

"But they are worried about me. They think I've been hurt."

"Well then let them. It's better they let you go. And better you let go of them."

"I can't." Cas is stubborn, turning his back in her, his coat fanning out behind him as he strides off. He's about to lift off, stretching his invisible wings, when some heavy, confining force seems to wrap around him, weighing him down. 

"Don't do this Castiel!" Yells his superior, the man struggles, unable to move. 

"No." He grits out, jaw clenching in pain. 

They're standing in the middle of a vast dirt lot. There's absolutely no one around for miles, their only company are the ants scuttling on the ground and the weeds. It's mid-afternoon, the sky is blue and the sun is hot. Naomi had recruited Cas and several other angels to retrieve an ancient object, one potentially containing an unlimited amount of power should it fall into the wrongs hands. All Cas knows is that it's some sort of instrument called a Kantele, it's native to Finland, and if the correct chords are played at the correct time and place then a person can control creatures, monsters, /the things that go bump in the night/ – he hears Dean's voice every time he thinks that. And what are they gonna do with it? Lock it up, store it for eternity in the Angel Archives – and that'll be that. Cas doesn't need nor want to be here.

"If you contact those humans without my express permission you /will/ be punished. I'll toss you back to /training/ if you're not careful." Naomi loosens her invisible grip on Castiel, he's not sure how she did that. Angels don't normally have power like that, or maybe he's just never met one. If there's one thing he knows for sure, it's that he /does not/ want to go to training. He would laugh at the name if he wasn't still struggling to breathe. 

/Training, more like brainwashing/. 

There was a time when the rebellious Angel congratulated the process, and said "/Must have been refreshing/" to Angels who'd been sent there. The place was, or is, truly what stops an Angel from having free will. It warps their mind into being something other than their own, twisting Angels into being soldiers – obedient pets on a leash. It's a terrible place. If any good has ever come from it, however, it is that it reminds Angels of what is good and true and what is sinful and cowardly. It reminds Angels that humans should be loved more than God himself. That's the part that the Angels seem to forget most often. But Cas? That's what he remembers best. 

"I'm going to let you go now..." Says Naomi in a dangerously soft tone, "And you are permitted to leave... But I will know if you go see them. So watch yourself. I have given you every chance in the world to make up for what you did, now don't ruin this one, because I swear it's your last."

The force holding Castiel back is released, and he flies off without looking back. 

He doesn't go to the brothers. 

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

Sam's up in an instant, but the second he's standing both the Winchesters realise in unison /that there's nothing they can do/. 

They should be grabbing their coats, maybe picking up a book and their laptops, then racing off in the impala to gank whatever evil has done this. They should be loading their shotguns and refilling their pistols, maybe blabbering a little Latin, too. They can't, though, and dear God does that make them feel terrible. They face each other, not moving an inch, both with strained expressions on their faces. Dean moves first, sitting down on the sofa, head in his hands. A boiling anger and icy fear are curdling uncomfortably in his stomach, twisting about and making him feel sick. 

"We should have figured this out earlier." Dean mumbles eventually. 

Sam nods, frowning, and speaks softly after thinking, "You know, I thought about what you said – before I mean, and you're right." He moves to sit on the coffee table across from Dean, "You're right we do ask Cas for a lot. And I know that we don't return many of his favors, but Dean – he never asks us too. He cares about us – for you – for reasons I don't think even he understands." He reaches a hand to the other's shoulder in comfort, "We're going to find him, okay? We're gonna find him and make this right. Everything's going to work out."

"And how do you know that?" Dean says weakly, glancing up at his brother with a vulnerable look. 

"Because it always does."

Dean's about to retort with a scoff and an eyeroll and an /only after somebody dies it does/, when he remembers his promise – I'll try, he'd said, I'll try. So instead he doesn't reply with anything. Sam's phone starts ringing, so the guy gets up to answer it, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts. 

His insides are still writhing, some strange feeling growing in his chest that he can't find a name for. He tries to settle down, focusing on the case, going through the facts: /Okay, so. Right now it seems most likely it's the Witch of Endor or Hecate. I really don't want to deal with witches, even if they're not green or warty. I have to admit it would be awesome to ride on broomstick, but it would hurt like hell if I landed wrong and the handle hit me. If it's Hecate, than she must have some followers since gods need believers in order to have power, or maybe she's killing people for/ – he freezes, entirely off-topic, the word heartache swoops into mind as he places the sensation hurting him. /Heartache? What the hell? What does that even mean? Jesus Christ I need a real, solvable case/. He shuts the emotion down, pushing himself to his feet with a groan. He can hear Sam's muffled voice from another room, he sounds like he's interrogating someone. 

Curious, Dean steps out of the sitting room following the sound of a growing temper. 

"Fine." Sam's saying, exasperated, "Well if you hear from them again call. And you sure? I'm worried about him though..." Dean halts outside the door to Sam's room. He hates when Bobby and Sam talk about him behind his back. "No, I don't think so. I'll look for something. Can you set up some sort of scanner? No, no, of course not," Sam laughs. Laughing? Dean thinks incredulously. "Yeah I'll make one, I got some more tech now. Hey, uh," His voice drops so it's nearly unhearable, "Do you think I should be watching Dean?"

/Watching me for what/? Dean peaks into the room, Sam's back is to him, their hand in their hair. 

"Okay. Bye, thanks Bobby. We're glad to hear he's fine-ish. Dean will be especially. Ha!" Sam chuckles again at something Bobby says, shaking his head, obviously grinning though Dean can't see it. "I know right? Bye now." He hangs up at last, and Dean backs up, and acts like he's just getting to the door, yanking it open further and going through it. 

"Sammy? Who was it?"

Sam seems a bit surprised to have Dean right there, and is trying to erase the smile he has lingering on him. "Bobby. He, uh, well, he talked to Cas."

Dean goes stiff, his mouth drying, "What?"

"Apparently he just showed up, said something about how he couldn't come see us, but that he's 'safe and unharmed'." Sam repeats the information he's just received as best he can, "I tried to find out more, all Bobby knows is that Cas didn't look hurt or anything. Also, he said that he's been keeping an eye on suicides." Sam gestures past his brother then strides by and down the hallway, still talking, "I guess no one's mysteriously killed themselves all week. He thinks it's stopping, or slowing down at least." 

He's in front of a black wooden door now, the entrance to what Dean's calling the Yeti Cave just to annoy him. He goes in, it's dark, save for a dozen and a half computer screens set up on the walls and on a large desk. There's only two on, one that has security footage of their front door, garage, the street, and then of the main room. The other shows a blueprint of the Bunker. It's purpose to keep track of all life signals in the building. Right now, two red dots are pulsing in the center within the small box that is this room. 

"I'm gonna set up some software that traces and categorizes suicides throughout the states. Hopefully, we should be able to tell immediately if something's off."

"Dude," Dean comments as Sam sits in his black leather desk chair, "Could you be any geekier? I swear you're the new Wyatt Donnelly."

"Except I'm not digitalizing some chick."

"Fair enough, but you should." 

Dean watches him closely for a while, not understanding how they know the exact combinations of numbers and symbols to enter in order to link a thousand different sites. Three other screens flip on, green words over black streaming by fast, Sam jotting down notes without looking down at them, and then swearing when his pen runs out of ink and he doesn't notice until several lines later. He has to reset one of the systems, and rewrites the info he'd meant to. Dean spins about in a separate chair, pushing against the wall to get momentum. It something he'd loved doing as a kid, and yeah, okay, it's still fun. So he's a dork? Shoot him for it if you must.

He's glad – no – beyond words happy that Cas is alright. But he wishes so very much that he could've seen him with his own two eyes. To know for absolute certain the angel wasn't being forced or tricked into doing anything. /I need to teach him our code words/. He wonders if Castiel would've slipped the the phrase 'funky town' into what he'd said to Bobby if he'd known it meant 'there's a gun at my head'. Dean trusts Bobby's judgement, however unreadable the angel can be, he knows that if there had been something majorly off the old man would've spotted it a mile away. 

"Hey," Sam starts, taking a break from hacking into the New York City death records, "You wanna look for a case? I think maybe... It would be good for us to have something we can, ya' know –"

"Actually fix?" Dean offers, the other nods. "Sure, that sounds good."

"Good."

"Great, actually." He corrects. This is exactly what he was thinking earlier. It'll be great. Funky motel, maybe they'll run into some werewolves. Or vampires. Absolutely no ghosts though, nope, he doesn't want to deal with that. And no demons either. 

It's not that Dean thinks that Sam will ever get an itching to drink demon blood again – he just doesn't want to chance it. Everything's been fantastic between them since they put an end to the Apocalypse coming. Yeah, Sam screeched some fairly nasty things to his brother when he was in the panic room for rehab, but that wasn't him talking. It was the madness of a drunk gone sober. They'd talked things out, and they've been in balance with one another for the past few months in a way they haven't been since, when? Three years ago? Wow. It's a blessing, if either of them are being honest. 

Dean's handed a detachable keyboard that wirelessly connects to one of the flatscreen computers, and he begins searching the Internet. He lazily searches 'strange deaths' and adjusts the settings to receive results only from the past week. Normally he'd go about it in a different way, but this works just the same. The first few things that pop up under 'News' are from some television show called 'Bizarre Deaths' that, from what he can make of it, is about two scientists experimenting and each of their creations ends up with some strange death. It's a comedy. Dean could gag. 

He's all the way to the third page of news links, when just under an article titled 'Seals Dying Out on California's Coast? Work of an Extraterrestrial Force?' – he sees it. 

~"The Panther" kills under-president of famous Vegas Casino, The Mirage

Yesterday, at approximately 7:12am the house cleaner of one Gregory McGuire found the disfigured corpse of the multi-millionaire on his sofa. He is said to have left his office at 10:00pm the previous night, and spent nearly two hours at a local pub.~

Dean smiles a bit even though he probably shouldn't. He skims through part of the article to get to the details. 

~The body was found nearly entirely bled out, and painted completely pink. Yes, painted pink. It was stripped of all clothing and the eyeballs were removed from their sockets, nowhere to be found. McGuire appeared to have been mauled to death by some sort of wild animal; according to forensic investigators the teeth marks are feline. 

A message left in pink paint on the wall of the apartment suggests that the killer may not be through with their work. It stated "The Panther was here". Studies have shown that killers who leave behind a token of themselves are often culprits of multiple murders. Currently, the vice-president of The Mirage, Anthony Smith, is being held for questioning due to the fact that McGuire fired Smith the night of his death. Police have not released any further information at this point, and the investigation is continuing as we speak. 

Subscribe here for further updates on this article.~

"Sammy," Dean says with a grin, "I think I found us a case."

 

They leave the next morning. It's a 16 hour drive, if they're lucky, and they only need to switch highways once. Dean takes the wheel first, and no music comes on, thank God. They pick up sandwiches, and Sam attaches some fancy WiFi thing to the roof of the car after persuading Dean for half an hour. It's so he can keep track of the home-computer's suicide charts, and also so they'll have WiFi on the road. It's a pretty fancy gadget, the tall nerd thinks, it took days and several hundred dollars worth of minuscule equipment to make it work but it's worth it. Free, entirely illegal WiFi, lovely. 

Sam's called ahead to some tiny motel and reserved them a room, they've never done that before, but the elder said that Vegas is extremely thin in the availability of rooms. 

Dean's ecstatic about the trip. It's Las Vegas for Christ's sake. /City of gambling, booze, and strippers/, he had told Sam yesterday. He is gonna get to save some people's asses, and have some fun. It'll be incredible. He's never been before, not really. He'd passed through once with his father after Sam left for Stanford, he wasn't allowed to go out on the town though. 

After eight hours of driving east across Kansas, and again through Denver and all the way to Grand Junction, Dean turns off the I-70 W at 6:30 in the evening. The brothers stretch and crack their joints as they go into a sketchy diner. They're both starving, Dean's grumbling stomach has been a reminder of that the past 100 miles. The place has black and white tile flooring, plastic chairs that are yellowing, and torn posters of food up over the walls. It smells like dirty grease and burnt burger patties. Sam wrinkles his nose, grossed out. 

"You sure you wanna eat here? It's kind of..." Sam waves a hand at a number of flies clustered atop something brown on the floor.

The sight has even Dean frowning with bared teeth, "Err..."  
He's about to say they'd have better luck at the Mexican joint next door, when a /huge/ dude squeezes out of kitchen. His gray beard is matted and drops of sweat slip down his bald head unpleasantly. He smiles toothily at them, everything in his mouth yellow or metal. 

"How can I help you folks?" The guy says cheerfully.

"We, uh, we uh..." Dean stutters as his gaze comes across a mousetrap in the corner underneath a table with an actual dead rat in it. "We forgot our wallet in the car," He invents, "We're gonna go grab it now."

The man raises his eyebrows and points to Sam, "You can order while your boyfriend grabs that."

Sam's about to correct him, when he decides to just let it be. Dean's staring at him earnestly, about to head out the door. 

"I, uh, think I'll go with him." Sam jerks a thumb at Dean who's now nearly out the front. 

"Hurry up, dear!" Dean calls from a few steps ahead, and Sam scuttles after his elder brother. Half-fearful that the giant man will lumber after them. As soon as they're both outdoors Dean laughs, "Fee, fye, foe, fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman! He was bigger than you man!"

"I know, that place was disgusting."

"It really was." Dean says with a fond smile, "Poor guy probably gets people skipping out like us everyday. All the best to 'im, but even I have standards."

They scrounge up some half-decent enchiladas and a beer, making it back onto the road by 7:30 with Sam driving. Later, Dean sets up the laptop to play some soft rock music without the car interfering, and leans back in the shotgun seat to catch some shut-eye. 

"Hey," He grumbles with sleep clouding his brain, "Wake me before we hit the Strip. I wanna drive Baby down the alley."

Sam chuckles at the other's sentiment, "Sure thing."

It's 3am by the time the city lights are in view, He's been yawning for the past hour, tears swelling in his eyes he's so tired. He's relieved to let Dean take charge as he slides to the side of road after disembarking from the US-36 freeway. Outside, it's about 60 degrees. A cool, crisp breeze whisks about, it's dry here, even more so than in Lebanon. Nevada is practically just a desert, it's beyond him why anyone originally chose to live here. He turns to look at Dean who's breathing steadily, and hasn't seemed to have had a nightmare tonight. 

"Dean..." Sam says shoving him. 

Dean grunts awake immediately, "We –we here?"

"Yeah. Almost. You said you wanted to drive." 

"Oh – yeah," He recalls. He gets out of the car, Sam doing the same, and they do a Chinese fire drill. 

With Dean at the helm, he orders for both the front windows to be rolled down as he swirls the handle for his own. Sam does as he's told, humouring him. Dean turns the engine back on, which hums that familiar sweet, deep melody. In the sky, a lightning storm has been going on. Bolts of electricity light the sky every few seconds, shattering the thick blackness into fragments. The impala zooms down the road, many cars are in sight, their taillights glowing red a few blocks up. They pass between the first skyscrapers, the lightning reflects off of them, dancing throughout the buildings in a fascinating light show. 

The real lights are up ahead, though. As Dean turns right onto South Las Vegas Boulevard, a sparkling universe opens up before him. The flashing signs, thousands of multicoloured neon bulbs, and humongous message boards are a swirling, indescribable cosmos of their own creation. The sight is breathtaking in every way possible. Dozens of people line the streets regardless of the time, music pours out the fronts of bars and casinos. It's as they pass by a huge man-made pond with jets of water sky-rocketing from it that Dean pats his car's dashboard with a huge grin. 

"C'mon, Baby. Wanna play something for me?"

And, like magic, the stereo flicks on with a buzz, and a song starts playing, quiet at first, but growing louder in volume. It something by Guns & Roses, the classic rock fanatic notes, he'd recognise that electric guitar anywhere. The impala begins to rumble as the bass gets ramped up. Sam has no chance of resting now, he doesn't care though. Nah, he wouldn't want to miss this. Dean looks over at him with a shit-eating grin and a wink as the radio yells:

~"Take me down to the paradise city, Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty,  
Oh, won't you please take me home..!"~

Dean zips past a dozen other cars, zooming in the valley walled by ignited hotels and casinos. The Statue of Liberty smiles at the car, and the Eiffel Tower stands proud. Several cars honk angrily at the '67 Chevy, but the driver is oblivious to them. He focuses on the palm trees and the fountains and the purple-lit Ferris wheel. He cruises by a place with a huge red carpet and TV News vehicles parked on the curb. Las Vegas.  
This is Las Vegas. 

 

Las Vegas; City of stars and freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to you Americans!!! 
> 
> Next chapter will be done in couple weeks, thanks for those of you staying tuned! :)
> 
> [Song referenced: Paradise City by Guns & Roses]


	8. King of Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has some fun in Vegas... And Sam is acting strangely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Bloody-o corpse... That's about it. 
> 
> Sorry for the wait!

“Sergeant Toto: ‘Yes, Inspector.’  
Inspector Clouseau: ‘Don't say 'yes'. Say 'oui'.’  
Sergeant Toto: ‘Yes, Inspector.’ “

(The Pink Panther classic cartoon)

 

"You can't just go in there and hustle poker, Dean. You'll get kicked out, or questioned, or arrested or –"

"Who said I was gonna play poker? And I'm not gonna go in there and hustle anything, I'm gonna play on some good-to-honest slot machines and maybe Baccarat and Black Jack. I'm not an idiot, Sammy. I know when I can pull stuff like that and when I can't."

"Do you? Cus when you lost five-hundred dollars in Manhattan last year for theft of property it sure didn't seem like it."

Dean's affronted, "I wasn't /stealing/ anything. It was a misunderstanding and the doofus security guard had a two feet and sideburns on me, what was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know, maybe, not take off with a solid gold 8-ball?" Sam suggests in irritation. 

"But do you /know/ how much we could've sold that for? Far more than five hundred dollars I guarantee you. I want it fair and square! That dude was drunk off his horse." Dean argues. 

He's perched with one foot up on a chair as he ties the black laces of his FBI leather dress shoes. They're a pair of Tom Ford's he picked up from a second hand store, and with a bit of polish they'd been good as new. Dean's put his best suit on, with a simple blue tie the same shade as Cas's but wider in size. He would pull on his long, brown coat too, but it's over 90 degrees outside so that's out of the question. He straightens up, double checks for his Satin Nickel .45 tucked into his waistband, and waves his arm at Sam to get a move on. 

"Well now it doesn't matter whether it was worth a lot or not. You were lucky you had enough cash on you to sway them into not calling the cops."

"I was lucky it was a hot chick contemplating calling them. Charmed my way straight of that one."

"And five hundred dollars." Sam adds quietly. 

"Jesus, why are you still complaining about this? Could we go now? Please?" Dean sighs in exasperation, swirling his car keys on a finger. 

"You're the kvetch of the two of us so don't even –" Sam starts locking their motel door as Dean does the opposite with the impala. 

"The who now?" The elder interrupts. 

"The kvetch."

"The hell does that mean?"

"You're the whiny, insufferable, picky, narrow-minded..."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean flaps his hand to tell the other to quit yapping, "I get the point."

Sam snorts, and Dean drives down the cram-packed streets of Vegas heading for The Venetian. They're going to check out the crime scene, talk to some witnesses... the usual. 

The motel they're staying in is a few miles away from the main drag. It's old, with grains of invisible sand littering the floor so extensively they have to wear socks in order to not get the grime between their toes. It's about 9 in the morning – it's eery how quickly the city fills with people. Airplanes zoom across the sky regularly to land at the airport, taxis and really nice looking buses crowd the roads, and already bars are open. The alleyways are filled with garbage and the homeless, stray animals strangely well-fed but dying from dehydration and overheating. Dean always gapes at the cactuses – the old green plants that survive by some miracle on just a few drops of rain. 

The 36 floor Venetian Resort Hotel looms into view as the car swerves a left onto the Strip in the eastern portion. At a distance, it simply looks large and pretty much the same as all the hotels lining the block, but as they near, it's clearly not. Dean flashes his badge at the underground parking lot manager, and they park directly inside in a 'reserved' space. They step into an elevator that'll take them to the main floor, the ride lasts less than 30 seconds so Dean doesn't have a mental freak out. As the gleaming, silver doors slide open with a ding, both the brother's mouths drop. 

The place is fucking insane. 

The ceiling is probably thirty feet tall, with intricate carvings and paintings decorating it. Massive glistening chandeliers dangle down, and thick columns adorned in stone, wood, and silver support the entryway. They've come up directly beside the front doors, which are open and made of polished wood and stained glass. Two men in tuxedos watch over the entrance like guards, as a couple of woman in skimpy gowns that probably cost more than Sam and Dean's outfits combined clomp in, some dude pushing a cart with their luggage behind them. The hallway is enormous, probably fifteen feet wide with openings to restaurants and bars to the sides, the floor is shining – all polish and black marble. The brothers step out into the center, and peer down the gaping domed corridor, it could go on for miles; mirrors against the walls and all the chrome, coloured glass, and reflective art make it impossible to tell. 

"Where do we go?" Dean asks gruffly, trying to contain the excitement of being in this rad-as-fuck place. 

"I don't know."

"But I mean really, where do we go?"

"I don't know man!" Sam says with a huff. 

"Woah, sweet Jesus, Sammy. /Look/." Dean's halted mid-step, pointing out a glass door. 

Beyond, is a gigantic courtyard. Rivers of clean, clear water edge it and curve through the middle, gondolas are being pushed by men in black and white striped shirts, couples sitting in them and eating breakfast. Several dozen tables are laid out with white-cloths and black umbrellas to block out the overhead sun. Dean has been brainstorming insults about living in a hotel all morning, but those all fly straight out the window and splash into one of those damned chlorine pools to drown. 

"The brochure wasn't kidding when it said it was Italian themed." Sam says smartly, turning away to continue meandering down the hall. Dean shakes himself, /Get a grip it's not that big a deal/, and hurries up to follow. 

"Agents!" An unfamiliar voice shouts from the right. It's a short woman, with brown, tightly pinned-up hair and a pants-suit.

The brothers spin to find her, then the elder jerks a thumb at them both, "Us?"

"Your FBI aren't you?"

"I, uh," Dean's thrown off a bit, people don't normally expect them to turn up. This could also be a problem though, she could be waiting for the /real/ FBI to come, then they'd be in a jam, "Yeah we are. We came about McGuire?"

"Yes, perfect, come with me." She motions at them and clicks off in heels, unlocking an 'employees only' elevator and going in. The Winchesters enter behind her, sharing a glance. "So, about time you two showed up, come all the way from Washington?"

"Yes, caught a plane last night." Sam offers. 

"See the Boulevard? Looks fantastic at a height doesn't it?"

"Yeah, sure does." Sam agrees. 

Dean cuts in, "So, what've you got with this murder so far?" He doesn't care much for small talk. Mostly though, he just needs something to focus on because the seventeen stories they're currently rising is freaking scary as hell. His gut is clenching, and his head spins a bit. 

"Well, uh, ha," She laughs as though in disbelief at herself, "Not a lot, guys, not a lot. I mean," She shrugs, "There's no weapon. No prints, not even a broken door handle. We got a pink corpse, a message on the wall, and no leads."

"What about, what's-his-face, Anthony Smith? The guy you were questioning." Dean inquires, gripping the railing of the elevator tightly. 

"Dead end. We let him go yesterday. The guy was in shock, had an alibi that checked out."

"Did McGuire have any other enemies, or something?"

"Sure, tons. He was a multimillionaire who gambles daily in Vegas. Worked himself out of so many tight holes he's bound to of hit some people the wrong way as backlash from his investments. A real bastard he was too."

Dean raises his eyebrows at her resentment, "Why do you say that?"

"He fired Smith because he was afraid of getting demoted himself. Didn't want Smith taking his position as president. He was selfish, married three times with six-children, never saw any of 'em. Doubt he even left them more than a cent."

"Do you think any of his kids or possibly ex-wives could've been involved with his death somehow?" Sam wonders. They're nearing the right floor, now. The bell dings, they step out, and his brother visibly relaxes. 

"No. They all live across the country. None of them with enough money to risk getting caught for something like this. Besides, this was clearly the work of a professional."

"What makes you say that?" 

"I'll show you." The woman says, stepping over yellow police tape and into a huge hotel suite. There's an outdoor patio, huge kitchen, dining room, a bathroom with a four-person jacuzzi – and the living room where all three sets of eyes are immediately drawn to. 

"What did you say your names were again, agents?" 

Dean swallows, "We didn't."

"I'm Clarke, he's Campbell." Sam fills in. 

"Well gang, it sure looks like we've got a mystery on our hands."

"Scooby-dooby-doo..." Dean mutters under his breath in answer to her reference. 

 

The couch is soaked with blood. It's black leather, yes, but that only means that now it has a layer of dried-brown-yuck that's flaking off in some places. The white carpet surrounding it has dark splatter stains. The blank wall-space beside the television is painted with the message "The Panther was here" – underneath which sits a crusty-blood paw print. A man with a doctor's face mask and thick plastic gloves is on his knees by the sofa, using a pair of tweezers to break some of the dried blood off, and seal it into a plastic 'evidence' bag. 

"Where's the body?" Asks Dean.

"Ha, funny story agent. It's in the autopsy room."

Sam blinks, "/Here/?"

"Yeah. Here. Creepy right? Not something they share with the general public. I didn't even know until I got assigned the case."

"Wow."

"Mm hm." She turns her back on the scene to face the fake agents, "Samples of McGuire's blood are being processed and tested today, as well as some of the paint used to write the message. Feel free to scope out the apartment, results of the tests will be available at the LV Nevada Forensics Lab tomorrow at 8am."

"I'll leave you two to it then, I'm sending a couple officers in a bit to keep this place on lockdown. Don't want any civilians caught in the crosshairs of the investigation. This is a messy one."

The woman leaves with the forensics guy, and Sam and Dean are left alone in a room reeking of blood. 

"That was weird." Dean says first, "She didn't even check our badges."

"No, she didn't..." Sam mumbles as he walks over to the wall, inspecting the pink paint. He traces a finger over all the words, then plants his palm over the print. It's larger than his hand. "Didn't the report say there were teeth marks on the victim?"

They're able to track down the autopsy room, where a balding man greets them pleasantly and asks for no more than whether or not they'd prefer a sugar or chocolate chip cookie. Dean gratefully accepted one (or two) of each and Sam surprisingly nibbled in a sugar. He was compliant with answers to their questions, not thinking any of them were misplaced or strange. McGuire's eyes were yet to be uncovered, and were rumoured to be a trophy of the murderer. The teeth and claw marks on the body, were long and deep. They were raked into the man's sides, shredding his stomach to bits. His throat and been ripped apart, so much so that the guy's esophagus was visible, with clear, white slime and ruddy blood all over it. Dean gagged once or twice as Sam grit his teeth together and lifted up flaps of skin to check for any other missing organs, and maybe a strange mark in the skin somewhere. It was difficult to make anything out, however, since the outside was painted in thick, pink paint. Some sections were scraped off, where the autopsy had originally been performed, but maybe there was something else hidden beneath the rosy colour. Something that would give the culprit away. If anything was certain as they left the room, it was that some sort of monster had done this. 

"So, what do you think it is?" Sam quizzes, holding no answers of his own. 

"I don't know. I have no clue. It looks like an animal attack. Werewolf, arachnid? Maybe it's some mutation that wraps it's victims in pink stuff."

"But what would be the point of the note? And you saw how much blood was on the couch, whatever this was clearly didn't come with the purpose to drink it."

"I guess. But it has to have some sort of human form, right? How else would it write that?"

"I agree, I'll call Bobby in our way back to the motel." Sam decides. 

In surprise, the other reminds him, "What about the witness?" 

Sam waves it off like it's no big deal, "Eh, we'll check on them tomorrow." 

"Dude, it's before noon. We have plenty of time today."

"Yeah, but –"

"But what?" Dean's asks in astonishment, stopping halfway down the hall on their way to the parking garage elevator. 

"There's a game on in an hour." Sam admits nervously. 

"A... A game?"

"Yeah."

"What sort of game?" The older brother continues, not understanding. 

"The, uh, Kansas Jayhawks and the Baylor Bears."

Dean jerks back, staring agape at Samuel, "A /football/ game? What the actual fuck are you jabbering about, Sam? You are kidding, aren't you?"

Sam meets his gaze with sudden determination, "No. I'm not kidding. It's serious stuff. I've got a lot riding on this game."

Dean can't help but shout, "And you were complaining about ME gambling? The hell, Sammy?"

"It's different! I'm not betting on anything! My /pride/ is at stake here!" 

Dean's about to argue, however he does want to explore Vegas. "Fine. Fine. Whatever you want. But I –" He points at a chalkboard sign on the front of closed casino doors, "Get to go to that." It's a notification for the hotel's casino's ‘Classic’ night. Which means cigars, booze popular in the 40's and 50's, woman in fur coats and diamonds, and jazzy music – which sounds /awesome/ in Dean's opinion. 

Four hours later, Sam is screeching at their crappy television, holding up the ancient rabbit ears to catch a decent signal and not miss out on the second overtime of the football game. 

"That was /clearly/ a touchdown! His knee was a good .5 centimetres ABOVE the ground! Screw you, Talmin!!!"

"Everything okay?" Dean checks, somewhat mockingly. 

"No! The ref is completely screwing over the team! Show that again! Here," Sam yanks Dean over to the screen by the elbow, "Watch right there, now tell me, does his knee touch the ground?"

Dean's fairly certain his brothers about to have an aneurysm if the call doesn't go his way, so he replies carefully, "Errr... It's hard to tell. But, um, I'd say it doesn't. It comes close, but not quite."

"Exactly!" Sam shouts shaking Dean by the shoulders, "Exactly!"

"... Right. So, I'm going to go now." The older inches backwards to the door, "Don't, like, die or anything while I'm gone okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Games back on." 

Sam's not behaving normally, not in the slightest, Dean's well aware of this. And he's about to shrug and take off, when a rush of adrenaline and childishness course through him. With a grunt, he throws himself over a bed, and snatches up the remote, he spins around, and turns the power off without looking. All is silent for a few precious seconds, then Sam explodes. 

"DEAN!!! Turn it back on RIGHT NOW."

"No." Dean smirks. 

"So help me, Dean, I will –"

"Will what?" Dean waves the remote cockily. 

"Give it!" Then Sam tosses aside the antenna, running over and tackling Dean onto the bed. They scramble for a few moments, the older stretching his arm as far as he can, and elbowing Sam in the stomach. Sam responds by pushing down Dean's head, smashing it into the comforter as he tries to roll over his brother. "Give it to me! What if the damn Bears score?! I can't stand for that! Give it here. /Now/."

Dean tries to kick at Sam's legs but it doesn't work very well, so instead he just twists away, falling off the bed and barely escaping knocking his head on the side table. Before he can even groan about it, Sam is pulling him to his feet by the arm and yanks the remote from his grip. He flips the tv back on, and hurries to fix the rabbit ears. 

"Man, you are in deep." Is all Dean says before brushing himself off, grabbing his bag, and leaving. 

He has two or three hours to kill before the casino opens. He spends some time driving through Vegas in his baby, it's less exciting in the day, but great all the same. He nearly stops at the pyramid shaped Luxor building, but opts against it choosing to save his cash for later. He does pull over and watch some garage rock band playing for free in a large square, with a fountain spraying a cool mist over the listening audience. Some tents are set up, selling soda and food, Dean gets a plastic bowl of nachos just for the hell of it, enjoying himself. He goes into the Las Vegas History of Music Museum, it's not very big, but it features thousands of unique photos and random things famous people used or touched. There's things about Carrot Top, The Checkmates, even a sexy gown once worn by Charo. He has to admit, the Prince section is pretty killer. A projector is set up with real film reels, projecting one of Prince's performances at MGM in the 90's. 

After seeing everything probably twice, Dean slips into a restroom to change his clothes. He does up the buttons of his white dress shirt, and slicks his hair to the sides with a comb, just like he had it in 1944, when he worked with Eliot Ness for a dozen glorious hours. He kept the suit, not to be nostalgic or sentimental, but yes, to be exactly that. He even has his fedora, and the thick, grey, wool coat he'd been given. He grins as he does up his brown shoes, straightening his tie as a final touch. Damn, he looks good. He chuckles, grateful no one comes in while he's checking himself out in the mirror. 

He heads back to his car, it's six in the evening. The sky is darkening, the horizon awash with golds and pinks from the setting sun. 

‘Where does the sun go when it disappears?’

‘It looks like the sun is swallowed by the ocean.’ 

‘And then it passes deep below, relighting in the fires of Hell, and rising once more to create a new day.’

He tries to ignore the fact that he's still worried by Cas. He tries to ignore the fact that Sam's gone loopy, and that someone could be murdered tonight by some psycho. The more he desires to forget that stuff, the easier it becomes. He pulls up to the The Venetian's garage, paying 15 bucks rather than use his fed badge. He's not here to investigate, he's here to have a good time. 

The doors to the casino are wide open as he approaches – music, laughter, and the jangling sounds of slot machines and poker chips pour out from within. It's entrancing. It's a fifty dollar entrance fee, which Dean pays off easily, a suited man unhooking the red rope to let him through. 

"Coat, sir?" Another man questions politely, holding up a padded hanger. 

"Yeah, yes please." Dean slides out of the wool coat that was really hot anyway, and the man puts it on the hanger, taking Dean's hat as well. The hunter-gone-gambler tips him a five, and the dude smiles with a thank you. 

The casino is, unsurprisingly, the size of a football field, and that's only what Dean can see from where he stands. The entrance is perched above everything else, a wide set of carpeted steps lead down to what could be hundreds of card tables. Poker, pool, Asian Stud, Casino Hold 'em, Casino War, Fan-Tan, Faro, Let it Ride, Chinese poker – to name a few. The upper level wraps around the bottom, a gaping hole in the center so the lights below cast a glow to the darkness above. To the left, right, and across the way, the slot machines and video-poker games light up the deeply shadowed edges with neon blues and yellows. Tonight, because of the 'Classic' theme, most of the electrical games have been carted away, leaving behind only the ones respectful of the era. Replacing them, are the tables offering dice, tile, and random-chance games like Chuck-a-luck, Pai Gow, and Roulette. 

The orchestral sounds of Duke Ellington are overhead, but Dean quickly realises that it's coming from an actual orchestra crammed into viewing box, tucked off in a corner room that seems set with a dance floor. Cigarettes and cigars light up the shadows like fireflies, the smoke curdling and drifting high in the domed ceiling. Dean loops around the railing, looking down, looking up. Appreciating immensely the lengths men and women alike have gone to look authentic on this occasion. Eventually he makes his way down the stairs, and peers into the scooped out dining rooms and takes a closer look at the band. Ladies are dancing, wearing remarkable heels and headdresses that at any other event would be silly, but here? They are fabulous. Made of lace, cloth, and shining jewels. Men wear bow ties, suspenders, the elderly sport monocles and some get away with a top-hat. Dean sees a woman identical to Marilyn Monroe, her arms hooked with two men who are tickling her chin and laughing over pints of beer. She began acting in '47, so he supposes she is correct for the time period. 

He sits down at a few tables, wins four hands of Blackjack, with a master poker face. A chick with fluffed brown hair, curling up at the bottom, and a dazzling smile hasn't stopped looking at him. She winks as she raises five dollars in the pot, swiftly pulling the bill from her hand bag. A blond fur covers her shoulders, draping across her arms. Her red dress looks like velvet, and her face is painted pale with '40s style lipstick and eyes. He doesn't mind her gaze, but he just got here, he's not ready to leave quite yet. Dean desperately wants to take off his suit jacket, but to do so would reveal his pistol in the leather sling tucked against his left side. He stands up from table, nodding at the gentlemen and ladies there, and excuses himself. He ducks behind a very out of place ATM machine, and slips off his jacket, shoving his pistol holster into its folds and keeping the bundle held tightly to his side. Much better. 

He wanders back into the ballroom, passing along the outside border, and over to the bar where the bartenders wear white shirts and bow ties of varying colours. He pulls one to the side, and asks if there's anywhere he can put his blazer. After some fumbling for reasoning, Dean gives up, shows the badge he brought with just in case, and the man immediately agrees to lock it in the safe behind the counter. Now Dean can really have a good time. He puts his money clip into his pocket, and orders a gin and tonic. Without the tonic. On the opposite side of the bar, a man with a dimpled chin and blue eyes is talking loudly to the man next to him. 

"It's true! I don't understand why you don't believe me. It's not that impossible."

His eyes are /really/ blue, like, as blue as Cas's. But that can't be, no ones are as blue as the angel's. Yet, this man is certainly giving Castiel a run for their money. 

"No, see, this is how it was. I didn't even know it was him! I was in the tavern – just hear me out! I was in tavern, and he was sitting next to me. He ordered a sandwich. See, the people around us were watching him like he was some sort of movie star! I'd just showed up there, didn't even know the decade, and naturally, I started chatting the guy up. What can I say? He was a looker..."

Dean jumps a bit as a hand lands on his arm, "Cigar, sir? It's Louixs'."

It's the Marilyn girl he'd seen before, she's alone now. Dean's never had a cigar before, he doesn't know what Louix means or if he should impressed or not, but he doesn't want to come off as daft or rude, "Yes, ma'dam. Wouldn't mind it at all." 

She smiles lazily, putting her elbows on the counter, leaning over to him. She smells off powdery makeup, liquor, and of course, cigar smoke. She retrieves one smoke from her handbag, a lighter in the other hand – when another woman comes sauntering up, snatching it and the cigar from Marilyn, shoving one end into her mouth. She lights it, taking a pull and blowing out the smoke through her teeth. 

"C'mon Marilyn, leave the poor man alone." She drawls, walking manicured fingers up the other girl's arm. 

"Oh, darlin', I will."

Dean's not sure what's happening, but the woman smoking breathes right in his face and drags the girl away. He chooses to ignore whatever /that/ was, and orders a refill. 

"You /did not/ sleep with Elvis!!!" The dirty-blonde man throws up his arms, addressing the loud-speaking dimpled guy. Dean huffs in amusement, finding himself staring at the blue-eyed guy again, wanting to hear his improbable and most likely ridiculous story of laying the King of Pop. 

"I did!"

Dean's smiling at the black-haired man's utter conviction, his story unswaying as he appears betrayed by his friend who very clearly doesn't believe him. He wonders if they're role-playing. He remembers the term from the time he went LARP-ing with Charlie. With a jolt, Dean realises in embarrassment that he hasn't torn his gaze from the dude, and now those lapis iris's are looking straight back. Crap. 

The man, who's about identical to Dean in size, mutters something to his friend and walks left around the bar to Dean. 

"See something you like?"

Dean's at a loss for words, "I, er, no. Sorry, man I was just –"

"Just checking out my undeniably charming looks?"

The hunter blinks. 

"Well I'm gonna order us some tequila shots, and in a pinch you could offer me the seat next to you. Or you could just keep staring at me all night, but hey, it's up to you." The man shrugs nonchalantly. 

Then, from across the way, blondey says, "Little less conversation, little more action, please!"

"Oh, shut up!" Blue eyes shoots back. 

"See him there? He's all shook up!" The comedian retorts. 

"Would you stop that?!"

"Don't be cruel!" Blondey says with a gasp, clutching his chest dramatically, "It's now or never!" He adds. 

"Oh for fucks sake, quit mocking me!"

"I ain't mocking you. But I am quoting Elvis." He clarifies with a smirk, downing a shot and tapping his glass for another. 

"Sorry about that," Blue apologises to Dean, who's still not sure if the guy is pretending to be like this or if he's legitimately this corny. 

"It's, uh, fine."

"So? What about me do you find so intriguing?"

Dean swallows. He doesn't like this, not one bit. He doesn't like how the guy is so full of himself, or the fact the he's standing and Dean's sitting. Dean doesn't like that his gun is hidden away, or that he's choking on his own tongue. This guy is /flirting/ with him. He about six-feet of sleek, wrinkle-free cotton. He's got black leather suspenders, a matching belt, and some sort of watch-cuff thing around one wrist. His dress shirt is pressed, deep blue, with thin white stripes patterned down it. He's got this shit-eating grin on face, like he knows he's attractive. Which, okay, he is. His perfect, white teeth, his fluffy-floppy black hair, and his obvious muscular structure. Dean doesn't notice any of this, of course he doesn't notice. He runs his tongue across his lips, about to speak, his gut balling up and squirming. 

"Harvey! I think he's too good for me!"  
Blue calls out without glancing away. 

"Told ya he was out of your league. What about me, huh, green-eyes? I more on your level?" Blondey, or rather Harvey, asks, he says it while striking what could be described as a dashing pose. "I'm a hunka, hunka, burnin' love over here!"

Dean's flustered to say the least, he hasn't any idea how to tell them that he's not interested. Especially when the black haired guy is ogling him so shamelessly. "Er. Uh, well, you guys are um," Dean fumbles, trying to not seem too weirded out, but oh god is he. 

It's happened more times in the past than he likes to acknowledge, guys flirting, slipping him their number. It's scary as hell. He doesn't know what to say, or how to act, or even how he feels about it. With woman, it all comes so naturally, like brushing his teeth. He knows what they like to hear and he's learned to read their signals. But men? Well he doesn't even like men, yet they consistently catch him off-guard and leave him drowning in a sea of uncertainty and repression. He's curious – hell, he's been semi-interested in every guy who's approached him with confidence and a smile – he can't do it though. He just can't. /You almost did once, remember/?

He shoves that intrusive thought away – he loves the ladies, he has since forever, and he knows that should be enough, he knows that he's perfectly happy with them, but seeing these dudes – these perfectly normal decent-seeming if not cheesy guys – and having them flirt with him, it's thrilling. He's felt it half a dozen times before. It's like Dean's on a roller coaster, and he goes up and up and up the ramp, and when he gets to the highest point, where his heart is beating a thousand times a minute and he can barely catch his breath, he backs out, and he zips backwards away from the fall and then comes to a squeaky halt, and tries to forget how close he'd gotten to slipping over the edge. Why should he complicate his life anymore than it already is?

"You guys are barkin' up the wrong tree, I'm uh, not –"

"Another straight-boy J!" Interjects Harvey at once, "That's like the fifth guy tonight who's turned you down. Your gay-dar is really off today."

"Oh c'mon, Mr. Alligator Shoes was totally checking me out. I had him wrapped around my finger until his wife showed up. Bummer though, I was gonna offer they both come back to my place, but then she carted him off." /Jay/ defends. 

"And that helps your point, how exactly?"

"It not like you've had any better luck!"

"Excuse me? Two business cards, and   
a scribbled number on a napkin from the green-tie bartender? I beg to differ."

"Whatever. I foresee at least a decent make-out, possible blow-job session in my future." Jay states with promise. Dean really hopes he doesn't think it's going to be with /him/. 

"Yeah? And with who?"

"You."

Blondey seems to consider the idea, "Good point, I can see that happening."

"You don't want anything to do with Harvey." Jay adds as a side note to Dean who is currently at a loss for words at the easy flirting between the two guys. "He's a real hard-ass."

"What are you saying about me over there?"

"All good things!" Jay answers teasingly. 

"I'm sure."

"I was just letting freckles here know what a demanding bottom you are."

"Some people like 'em bossy!"

"But nobody likes whining, for Christ's sake. Right? Back me up on this one greeny." Jay requests of Dean. Who unmajestically nods vigorously. 

Jay snorts, his volume lowering to have a private conversation, "So, tell me honestly, you really not gay?"

"Uh. No, I'm really not." Dean says immediately, almost too fast. 

"Bi then? I mean, with hair like that you're a bit effeminate." Jay actually /reaches/ a hand over and strokes Dean's combed down hair. At some point Blue had sat down, and ended up with a tequila shot. Two tequila shots, one for Dean. 

"What now?" 

Blue smiles wider, talking fondly, "You really have no idea do you?"

"About what?" Dean's grumbles, suddenly feeling very resentful. 

"You just sat down at the biggest gay-bar in town, honey. That's why we were hitting on you."

The Winchester is speechless. His heart is slamming against his rib cage, and not because he freaked out by where he landed himself quite by accident, but because Jay's hand is on the back of us head, pulling him in for... For what? A kiss? He would jerk away, but he can't find it in him, he's just drunk enough not to. Like last time. At the last second, when Jay's eyelashes flutter shut, and the dude's puckering up, Blue kisses Dean on the cheek instead. 

Oh. Oh. He had been kidding the entire time, just to yank a reaction out of Dean. 

"You really thought I was going to kiss you, huh?"

Dean's sort of petrified, he probably looks like a huge dork. 

"Would you have let me, freckles?" Jay whispers in a husky tone, "Do you /want/ me too?"

He's not sure how to respond. All of this, is so foreign. So teenage. What is he even doing here? It's like he's gotten slapped. All the haze clouding his brain slips away, and the insecurity and vulnerability he's been feeling all night is gone. In this moment, things could go two ways. In the first, Dean could have an ah-ha! moment and press his lips against Jay's and let go of all the crap he's been hoarding the past few years, and in the second, Dean could push back his chair, retrieve his jacket and .45, and take off. No regrets. That would be a lie though, wouldn't it? He'd regret not kissing this damn man. 

But he'd regret kissing him in the first place more. 

/You are stronger than this, remember/?

So that's it then. Dean's decision.

"God, you have it bad don't you?" Jay suddenly laughs, easing the tension slightly as he bends back, giving Dean plenty of space to breathe. Space to escape. 

"What?" Dean says in confusion, probably for the millionth time tonight. 

"You're looking at me like you wish I was somebody else."

Is Dean doing that? Not on purpose. /I mean, he does look like Cas. But only the eyes. And the hair colour, maybe the way it's all mussed is similar/... He tries to ignore those comparisons. He can't help wondering, regardless of how he suppresses it, what it would be like if Cas were here beside him. They'd chit chat, Dean tossing around sarcastic comments that Cas wouldn't necessarily understand. They wouldn't talk about the case. Or Angels, or ghosts, or witches, or demons, or Sam. They'd be here, experiencing this, together. Castiel would be all dressed up. /Oh god, Cas in suspenders/. Dean flushes outwardly at the image that pops up in his mind. 

"Listen," Jay says, his tone suggesting a piece of advice and a farewell is coming, "I don't know what your deal is. I don't who you are. But if there's anything I've learned in my lifetime – and there's been more than one of those – it's that if you want something, no matter how scared you are, give it a chance." He takes a drink, glancing away and sighing as though wishing he could've said the same thing to himself a long time ago, "*It's a terrible thing, I think, in life to wait until you're ready. I have this feeling now that actually no one is ever ready to do anything. There is almost no such thing as ready. There is only now. And you may as well do it now – whatever it is you're waiting on. Generally speaking, now is as good a time as any."

"And besides," He finishes his drink, smiling at Dean again, "People don't just accidentally sit down in a place full of queer folk unless they're one themselves. They just don't always know it at first." Jay chuckles at Dean's most likely alarmed expression, "But, if that's truly /not/ the case, then I think you have a shadow." He subtly nods at someone lingering out of Dean's peripheral vision, so Dean looks. 

Leaning against a wall is the brunette from the Blackjack table, she's secretly looking at her phone – which aren't technically allowed in order to keep things in theme – but is also unabashedly eyeballing Dean. When he turns back to Jay, the man is gone. Now he's across the bar, yanking at Harvey's arm to take him to the dance floor. 

Dean frowns at the tequila on the counter in front of him. 

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

It's been concluded that the witness is neither high nor drunk, and wasn't the other night either, meaning whatever they claim, is in some or most respects true. At first the conservative rich man is denying anything was odd at all, that he was even a witness in the first place, but Sam gently wriggles the truth out of him. Apparently, he saw the Pink Panther. Like, the one from the cartoon, but very tall and with yellow eyes filled with an inhuman malice. 

"Did it see you?" Queries Dean, elbow propping him up against the wall. 

The man shakes his head, "I don't know. I mean, yes. It looked right at me. In the eyes and everything, but it was like it couldn't see me it smelled like..."

"Like what?" Sam poises his pen over his notebook. 

"Like cotton candy. Like sugar."

"Was it made of cotton candy?" Dean's eyebrows shoot up in interest. 

The witness gives him a disturbed look, "What sort of a question is that?"

"Hey, you're the one who's Sunday 'toons pulled an Inkheart and lept out of the screen."

"I apologise," Sam intervenes, "For my partner, he's uh, insensitive at the best of times. Is there anything else you heard or..."

"Well, I heard, uh, the guy, erm, scream," The man shudders, gripping his cup of coffee tighter, "It was only for a second though, and he was blasting this really irritating music too."

"What music? The Cheetah Girls' number one hit?" Dean grunts as Sam smacks him for being such a dick. 

"No." The caffeinated man glares, his mouth flattening into a thin line. "The Pink Panther theme song."

"I'm sorry, what?" Dean laughs, "The whole 'buddum buddum buddum budduuuummm' thing? You're kidding."

"No, I'm not kidding." He turns to the other Winchester in frustration, "Can I just talk to you please?"

And with that, Dean's kicked out of the hotel room. Sam emerges several minutes later, saying the guy didn't have much else to share. 

The younger brother has recovered from whatever insanity overtook him last night when he desperately fought to watch the football game. That being said, he flipped out again this morning when he discovered the healthy 'Go-Green!" smoothie he'd bought this morning was replaced with some green-coloured chocolate milkshake, blaming Dean for switching the drink somehow while he was getting dressed. Sam had inquired heatedly if this was the beginning of a war, even though Dean kept insisting he hadn't done anything. Which, he hadn't. The elder is exhausted. He went home soon after Jay pranced away, but he didn't sleep very well. Or maybe, at all. He's not sure. 

The witness had smartly switched hotels in fear of the cat coming back for him, so they have to cruise down side streets to The Venetian again. The lab results regarding the paint and blood samples were transferred to the autopsy room here, saving the false agents a trip and a few gallons of gas. When Dean recalls the room is on the 27th floor, he leaps at the opportunity to send Sam up on his own to collect the information, inventing some half-ass excuse about a sick stomach and maybe finding an aspirin from some rich chick. With an unconvinced grimace, Sam obliges and turns to go by himself. 

"Be here when I get back. Don't wander off too far."

"Yea, whatever mom." Dean replies as the elevator doors shut. 

Dean naturally strolls away into the hotel, peeking around corners, people-watching. There's cafès, a bookshop, a really expensive merchandise store with Vegas snow globes that Dean's tempted to drop ten bucks on, but holds himself back. Chicks are stretched out, tanning on mats outside the massive windows. A couple is canoeing around the moat casually, not a care in a world. Dean's shoes click on the smooth flooring, and he stops on occasion to admire some piece of art or read a sign about some special event at the assorted restaurants and bars that make up the ground floor of this resort. He thinks more than once, what it would be like to be a customer here. To be so rich you get a three-room suite with room service and probably complimentary champagne and chocolate. Speaking of, the scent of freshly-baked cookies is tickling at his nose, and he takes a right around a corner to search out a bakery. 

He slams straight into a man coming from the opposite direction. 

"Argh, sorry I didn't –" Dean's stomach drops to the floor, "I didn't –"

He knows this man. 

And not from a case. Not from a sporadic argument in a bar or 'cus the guy had once been possessed once or anything else like that. No. This is him. /Him/. 

Dean's first. Dean's maybe. Dean's almost. 

"You're fine, I should've been watching where –" And then the other man stumbles for words too. They stare at eachother in a way that reminds Dean all to much of Cas. But he can't process that right now. The entire world is spinning, his mind has gone blank. Now his stomach really does hurt. 

"Dean?" The other man asks, incredulous. 

Dean can't wrap his brain around this. Why here? Of all places? Why now? Why ever? Why had the world brought them together again? Hadn't the one time been enough? 

"I — I – Drew?" Dean's manages after possibly months of silence. He can feel his hands getting clammy, a cold sweat threatening to break. 

"Good. I'm not crazy. It /is/ you." 

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me." He chokes out. His entire body feels like it's short-circuiting, like he's a rusty old machine sputtering to a halt, in desperate need of an oiling and the tightening of the bolts on his wheels. 

"How you been?"

/How've I been? How've I been? Not good, thanks for asking. Not good. Ever since – what happened, happened – not good at all/. 

"Drew." Is his hushed response. 

The guy grins. 

He's an inch or two taller, with black, soft, curly hair that bounces like a spring if you pull on a strand. His eyes are brown, but with gold and green sparkling like a halo in them. He's Indian, born and raised there until he was ten years old, then his parents moved to England, and then to America when he was fifteen. He has a slight, lilting accent, giving every word he speaks some spice. Not only that, he has pierced ears, black triangles pinned into them. He's clean shaven, but a shadow of stubble lies over his cheeks and chin. And, oh, this is why Dean couldn't resist. The man's in a purple blazer with dark jeans, trendy boots are laced up at his feet and he's got an original 90's Sixth Sense t-shirt on. 

"You don't look so bad yourself. What're you doing here?" Drew notes his full-body gaze. 

The hunter puts himself in a temporary time-out. He shuts out Drew and the hallway and the light, and breathes /in through my nose, out through my mouth/. Newly composed, he answers, "Work. I'm a fed."

"Wow. Never woulda guessed the first time we met. You must get one hell of a sweet paycheck to afford this place." Drew comments, impressed. He starts walking, his hand skimming Dean's arm as if to guide him along with him. 

"No, not at all. I'm not staying here, I'm investigating here."

"What happened?" Drew questions with mild concern. 

"That, my friend, is confidential." Dean tries to sound completely unphased by all this. 

"Oh don't be coy, Dean, we both know what talker you are." The guy smirks. Dean's embarrassed to say the least. /Don't I remember all too well/?

"Can I ask you something? Since you're calling me friend and all?" Drew continues, trailing a finger against the wall as he moseys down the hall, a few steps in front of Dean. 

"I guess." He murmurs begrudgingly, already regretting his choice. 

"Was there, has there – been anyone after me? Ya know, for you?" 

A lump forms in his throat. It was kinda what he was expecting, though. He swallows, purposely avoiding the searching eyes of the other man. "No. No other..." He motions his hand in a way that he thinks they will understand. 

They nod, "Alright, alright. Fair enough. I just haven't been able to stop wondering over these months, if I was your stepping-stone to a new part of your life. Hey, it's cool that I wasn't too, though."

Drew stops, so Dean stops, and they look at each other again because Dean can't come up with a damned thing to say. He doesn't have a chance to anyway, 'cus Drew is wrapping his fingers around Dean's elbow, and is leaning down slightly to whisper, "But that doesn't mean I'm not going to try again."

It's all too much for him. It's all so, so, so, much. What with the events of last night and the mounting emotions about his past, and then Drew slapping him in the face with his mere existence, Dean can't handle it. 

He's reached the tipping point of the roller coaster. 

So, two choices. Like last night. Like the /first/ time. 

One; pull away, escape, say goodbye – find Sam. 

And two – well two is...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, Hannukah, Kwanzaa, or whatever else!
> 
> Also, I know say this every time time, but, new chapter in a couple weeks! I promise it won't be a month :-/ 
> 
> [*quote by Hugh Laurie]
> 
> :)


	9. A Blast From the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to find about Dean's past, and to take down the monster in Vegas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So from now on when a phrase or sentence is inside these ' ' it means it's someone's thoughts. 
> 
> Warnings!: Gross, detached eyeballs. Dean & another male character making out (I'm not sure what qualifies as an intense make out scene, but there's lots of touching happening, nothing very graphic) (and it's not with Cas or Sam, and it is consensual). Non-con kissing (is stopped quickly, nothing bad happens there).

It would be an exaggeration to say to say Dean ran away. But to say he casually sauntered off with a friendly ‘No thank you, goodbye,’ would also be inaccurate. 

He did neither of those things, rather, when Drew strode around a corner, Dean ducked into a some sort of restaurant and hustled all the way through tables and waiters, down a set of stairs, and then out a pair of swinging doors. Luckily, he had come out somewhere familiar and was able to maneuver his way through the slick corridors to the entry of elevator. He doesn't think about what just happened, or what he just did, or the fact that while his body may have backtracked and fled his mind certainly hasn't and while he has genuinely no interest in ever seeing or speaking or doing /anything/ with Drew, something has crept two centimetres to the left that raises flags, sets off alarms, put his teeth on edge without him even recognising what's different. Somethings different, though. 

Sam conveniently exits the metal box two seconds later, it's a blessing from above if Dean's ever seen one. He just prays that Drew won't somehow catch up to them and force Dean into eventually explaining everything to Sam. 

Sam seems surprised to his brother, "Hey. You actually stayed put. That's a first."

"Well you practically tied me to a post. What choice did I have?"

He gives him a weird look, carrying a packet of information at his side, "So, um," Sam clears his throat, "The paint. The paint the Panther wrote his message with, wasn't paint at all."

"What was it then?" Dean anxious, trying to walk out of this damned place before he makes even more a fool of himself. 

"Frosting." Sam says with utter amusement, "It was frosting dyed pink."

"So I could've licked it off the wall, then?" Says Dean sarcastically, keeping his mind desperately occupied. 

Sam doesn't even acknowledge his comment, "Get this, so the LVN Lab guy who dropped off the samples last night was found dead, this morning, in a museum, killed by a pile of collapsed dinosaur bones. The weirdest part is, the bone were made of solid sugar."

"I don't get it. What's with all the candy?"

"I don't know. Lots of creatures feast on sugars, but I've never heard of one that creates them and uses then to kill people."

"Wait. Do you think the Panther was actually made of cotton candy then?"

Sam shrugs, "I guess it'd make sense."

They step out of the parking garage elevator, and find their way to the reserved location not three cars down where the impala is parked. Dean opens his door, slams it shut, and starts the engine. "Where we going?"

"Whatever is killing these people had the power to create things from thin air. Sentient things, if what we know about the Panther is true." Sam babbles on, flipping through his notebook. "It has power. It likes sugar; or it's using sweets at least..." He trails off. 

Dean puts his hands on the wheel, tapping. He's getting antsy and he can't help but look over his shoulder to the silver doors of the elevator, afraid they'll open and Drew will come out. 

It was two years ago they met. Two whole flipping years and yet Dean recalls it like it was yesterday. They knew each other for less than a day, less than six hours. How does Drew even /remember/ him?

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

October, 2007. 

It was a normal night. Sam and Dean had just sorted out a thing involving suicides; demons had been the problem, and they'd taken care of it. Everything was good, kinda. Blonde-Ruby had been driving Dean insane, he didn't trust her as far as he could throw her. Why should he? She was a demon. Sam trusted her, he didn't have a clue why, but he did. Ruby said she could help with the Colt. Get it working again, that sort of thing. So in a way, they did need her. 

There'd been this chick named Casey. And she was a demon too. Dean hadn't known that for sure, he acted acted like they'd gone back to her place for a bit of fun, which to her it probably still was because she tried to kill him, but he trapped her in a pentagram. Sam showed up, they ganked her and her lover, and then here he was. Sitting at a bar with nothing to do. Great. 

"Kind of funny, don't you think?" She had said, "You and me sitting here like a couple of regular folk." 

Dean had replied, "Yeah, it's hilarious. You know, in that apocalyptic sort of way."

It was a nice place, old building, lots of wood, dark – decent prices and all sorts of booze to pick from. Not to mention pretty empty. There was a couple cuddling in a booth, and an older lady a few seats down, but it was quiet. Which was good. He didn't want to deal with anyone. 

It weird for Dean to look back on it now and realise that he didn't know Cas then. Didn't know Crowley or almost anything about Lilith. But mostly, all he could think about was that it was his last year. His last year to live. 

Until he was sent to Hell for saving his brother's life. 

So in a way, he'd thrown the hat in. Developed a ‘fuck it’ attitude because who was he to not take risks when these were the last risks he'd ever make? Who was he to say no to things he'd never tried or thought about or wanted? Why not do everything possible in the space of a year he could that made him happy? He was done thinking about the future because he /really and truly/ didn't have one. In 12 months, at about midnight, it would all be over. 

‘I can't waste what little time I have left.’ 

He thought about all these things; he thought about traveling to /see things/ rather than fight them. Like seeing Niagara Falls or the Grand Canyon or camping in the mountains. He also wanted to learn, he'd never admit that, but he did. He wanted to go to school and learn about the parts of the world that hadn't been corrupted by monsters. He wanted to see the world through the eyes of someone who'd never witnessed a single death, never seen a decapitated head or had blood covering them head to toe. He wondered, and still does, ‘What would I be like if I wasn't raised a hunter?’

He wouldn't change becoming one if he had the opportunity, 'cus if he did people would die, and frankly, he'd probably get sucked into the life somehow anyway. Better to be in it from the start, in his opinion, so you wouldn't know what you're missing. 

He got another beer, reading the chalkboard signs and chewing on some pretzels. 

"Hey there," Said a male voice with a slight accent, "Mind if I sit next to you?"

Dean glanced up, registering that there was about a dozen other open seats, but nodded anyway. Maybe a little company would be terrible. 

"Thanks," The black-haired guy gestured at something to get the bartender's attention, and ordered a martini, "So, do mind if I talk to you? Some people get really pissed off if I just start hammering so I thought I'd be polite."

"Uh," Dean, remembering his ‘one year to live’ modo, replied, "I guess you can. Got nothin' else goin' on."

"Super. Can ask /you/ questions?"

Dean hesitated, swallowing the cold liquor pooled in his mouth, "Um, sure. I mean, you may not get a lot outta me, but sure."

"Great, a mystery-man, my favourite," The man chuckled, thanked the lady handing him his beverage, and turned his stool to face Dean properly, "Line of work? Got a family? Girlfriend, boyfriend? Sister, brother –"

"Whoa, there," Dean stopped him, "No rapid fire. Besides, I really don't want to go through all that David Copperfield crap." 

"Ha, okay, we'll start slow then," The man with a purple blazer stirred his drink thoughtfully, "‘I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up.’ "

"What?" Dean said with alarm. Did this person recognise him? Should he know this person? 

"What?" The guy said innocently, "You were quoting the Catcher and the Rye, the only other opening quote I know is from On the Road. Why do you look so... Freaked out?"

"I – er, my name is Dean." 

"Really? Imagine that, ha. Well hello Dean, I have not actually split up with a wife, as I've never had one – my name is Drew."

"Okay, okay," Dean shook off his paranoia, "Alright," He cleared his throat, "I'm Dean. Dean Winchester, super to meet you Drew."

"I'm sure I'm a joy." 

Dean didn't respond, maybe talking to this guy wasn't actually all that great an idea. 

“So… What are you doin’ in a place like this?”

Dean sighed. ‘One year left to live’, his brain crudely reminded him. 

“Just got off of work. Had a shitty day – what else?”

“What do you do?”

“I'm not into personal stories, pal.”

“It's just your job,” Drew argued. 

“And I don't give a damn, okay?” Dean said harshly, unnecessarily pissed, “I'm not gonna go into it – alright? So, tell me about you, or ask about about the frickin’ weather, but /don't/ ask about me.”

Drew seemed unphased, sucking in a breath and muttering, “Bitch.”

“Jerk,” Dean instantaneously responded. He cringed inwardly, that had felt so wrong, “So… Who are you?”

And Drew chuckled, with his whole body, bending over and slamming his glass on the table, and Dean smiled when he recomposed himself with an apologetic look, “Man,” Drew started, “Have I got one hell of a tale for you.”

And so Drew launched into a long drawn-out tale of lies and deception revolving around a stack of comic books stolen by his ex. Followed up by a half-hour rant on the superiority of DC over Marvel. Dean joined in when he actually knew the guy was talking about, but mostly he just listened. He found himself lost in their Indian accent layered over with a fake American accent – and also in who they were. They were so different, completely oblivious to monsters and death and the longer Drew spoke the more Dean forgot about his twelve-month deadline. They laughed about past one-night-stands, and when Drew revealed without a care that he dug men too, Dean laughed and they complained together about the ups and downs of either gender. 

They kept drinking, the hunter wasn't even aware of the things he was chugging, he knew he was happy though, and that's what mattered. After a few too many shots Drew tipped over backwards off his barstool to the floor. Dean cracked up, and attempted to help him up but failed horribly; instead collapsing on the floor next to him. They were too drunk to care about the ruckus they were causing. They laughed, tearing up, and shoved at one another's shoulders. Dean felt like both an utter idiot, and also like he was floating in some sweet sanctuary of bliss where he had no worries. They moved to a weird, rounded booth with terrible pink velvet cushions that matched the putrid shade of salmon the walls of the bar were painted. The bartender brought some glasses of water over to them with some pretzels, refusing to serve them any more alcohol. 

Drew argued about it with a grin, offering them a blowjob even though that wouldn't technically work since the employee was a female – he didn't seem to notice that though, and just kept insisting. Eventually she snapped “Give him one,” while pointing at Dean and the man chuckled and slouched his head onto the Winchesters’ shoulder. He lay like that for several minutes, and it somehow wasn't strange at all. Dean sipped at the H2O, and gratefully jammed handfuls of pretzels into his mouth. Drew was mumbling utter nonsense, complaining about some other thing. Or at least, it sounded that way. 

Then after a minute Dean tuned into his words and learnt more about The Life of Drew. 

“My dad was an abusive bastard. He cut my mom and I off from everyone and trapped us in the house for months. Then one day when I was like 11 my mom woke me up in the middle of the night – he'd gone out on liquor run – and we made a dash for it into my aunt's car. We had almost nothing…” He explained about going to Europe, learning English, and going to school, and murmurs about how he was afraid his dad would find his mother and hurt her. 

He sat up when Dean ate the last of the food, and began talking about how he'd realised he liked dudes and girls. He rambled about dozens of things and at some point Dean interjected with one of his own experiences. He wasn't sure why he said it, but he did, “I remember when I was younger I had this weird thing where I really wanted to touch guys’ facial hair. Their beards, their moustaches –”

“Their stubble.” Drew interjected. Their shoulders were touching, and Dean was dizzied – everything slightly out of focus. It all slammed /back/ into focus when Drew’s fingers found Dean’s chin and began tracing it. Their thumb swept over his cheek, and along his cupid's bow, teasing the edges of Dean's lips. Drew was calm, swirling his fingers without thought. 

Dean had gotten himself into an interesting situation. Yet again, as he stared at Drew's cool, brown corneas, he reflected on his moral: ‘Do everything you've never done before it becomes everything you can never do.’ 

With minimal hesitation, Dean tucked his palm up against the back of Drew's neck. The man paused what he was doing, and glanced up just as Dean kissed him. 

The connection was instant, though Dean was careful. He kept his mouth as shut as he could, not using tongue for fear Drew wouldn't like it. Their lips moved against each other, their breaths reeking of salt and booze. Drew’s body was cologne and laundry detergent, Dean was pine trees and clean leather. All of it mingled and twisted together until /they/ were twisting together. Hot mouths roving along skin of cheeks and necks, heavy breathing that was growing faster as their tongues touched and explored. Dean felt cross-eyed when Drew's mouth found his neck and began sucking and kissing all the way up under his jaw and to his ear. It was crowded in their little booth, their elbows bumping the table and their legs uncomfortably angled so they could face each other. 

Drew pulled his knees up so he was standing on them, a head or two above Dean and leaning down. He came forward farther, kissing faster as Dean kept up, a hand against Drew’s chest. The man’s fingers suddenly hit Dean's thigh – rubbing up and down in the inside and over the crevices of his hip. The hunter gasped at the touch – unfamiliar with it. 

Drew seemed about to pull back, and ask for permission to continue; Dean knowing he'd make them stop if he thought too much – just yanked the other closer by their head, biting Drew's lip and running a tongue along the inside as they breathed heavily together. They were trapped in a bubble of heat and heart. 

When Drew's knee found its way between Dean’s legs, he moaned louder than he should have. The bar was empty, but it wasn't /that/ empty. A wolf-whistle came from across the room, but the lovers either couldn't hear it or didn't care. Dean breathed heavily as a wet line was drawn across his collarbone by his partner, amongst it his flannel shirt had come unbuttoned some at the top. When Drew’s knee pushed harder, moving a bit, Dean let loose a sound that was neither quiet nor in any way appropriate for public ears. 

It had caught the attention of the bartender, and she came over with a heavy eyebrows, but a soft gaze, “You kids better get lost.”

Drew immediately obliged, as if awakening from a dream, he unlocked himself from Dean, who kept an arm around their waist, and his lips at their throat. If he stopped touching the other man, he would stop all together, and he didn't want to stop. Drew tossed a few bills on the table, and pulled Dean’s jacket up onto him – though the shiver than ran through him afterwards suggested it was just as triggering as his jacket getting ripped off. Their mouths clashed again – warm lips and saliva and stubble. They somehow found themselves outside in the crisp, Autumn air. Not that they noticed the /weather/ at a time like that. 

Drew was leading Dean somewhere by the hand, and Dean had his otter arm slung across their shoulders to steady them both and keep them close. He wasn't drunk, not really. He had gotten so good at holding his liquor it was honestly probably kinda scary. Yet, he was just drunk enough to act like he was. It was impossible to tell if the other man was wasted or not, but he too seemed strangely fine. They approached a 1961 Cadillac, Fleetwood Limousine style. Drew pushed him right up against it, not afraid at all. 

They were back to it. 

The pulling, tugging, sighs, gasps, etc. Dean felt it all. It was warm and hot, new and familiar, thrilling and terrifying – all at once. It felt so good. Drew's fingers were all over his chest, stomach, and hips – digging and leaving precious marks. Dean tried to return the favour, everything happening so quickly. 

“Wanna get outta here?” Drew managed to get out in between their activities. 

It had come; Dean's opportunity to back out. Oh, and how much he didn't want to take it. He wanted so badly to get in the damned car and drive to some hotel or maybe this guys house and have the best goddamned one-night-stand of his life. Or at the very least, his first with a /guy/. It would check an item off his bucket list that he didn't even know was on there. He could do this, and then do it again, if he liked it. But if he did like it, what would that even mean? What would that say about him? 

When these thoughts crossed his mind, he did possibly the rudest thing he'd ever done. He put a firm palm on Drew's torso, and pushed him away, turning his head to the side to stop them from kissing him anymore. 

“Stop,” Dean murmured, sounding utterly defeated. 

And Drew did – just like that, he did. He let go of Dean almost completely, only holding onto his fingers. He stared straight at Dean, a concerned expression coming over him as Dean filled with shame. 

“I'm sorry. I can't. I –” he rushed to explain, but Drew interrupted. 

“Shhh… It's okay. Alright? It's okay. I know what you're going to say,” He spoke softly, without judgement or mocking, “You've never done this before… You don't know what would happen if you did… It's okay. I get it. You're young. I'm young. We've both got a lotta life ahead of us and we can only catch so many curveballs, right? But at some point we're gonna be forced to start catching with our right hand instead and we'll have to start learning everything all over again,” He closed his eyes, and leaned forward slightly so their foreheads and nose touched, “I'm not trying to use this baseball metaphor to try and talk about hitting a homerun with you tonight,” He chuckled at himself and Dean couldn't help but smile, his eyes shut too, “But I do think baseball is generally a good metaphor for anything to be honest. I think – I think I'm your first. I'm your first. But I can't really be your first unless there's a second or third to compare me to. So in reality I'm actually your only. But I'm going to go out on limb here and saying that I will at some point and time /become/ your first,” He started moving away, and Dean felt sort of alarmed at how the events of the night had turned so intensely, “Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Drew was in the opposite side of the car then, unlocking his door, “Don't forget me, okay? I may be the self-centred jackass that complained about his problems for three hours in a row while you listened regretting your choice to let me talk to you – but don't forget me.”

Daan nodded, and then added, “You're not driving home, are you? You're kinda drunk.”

Drew laughed, “I’m in love with your concern. No I'm not. I'm gonna sit down in the car and call a cab. I was just trying to make a less awkward goodbye.”

Dean huffed in amusement, “Okay. Well, don't let the driver wiggle any extra cash outta your wallet. They always try that with hammered guys.”

“I'll keep that in mind. Good bye, Dean.”

“Bye.”

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

As it turns out, they hop straight back out of the car after Sam realises the only place all the victims had in common was the creepy lab in the hotel. And that inside said creepy lab, a man /was handing out cookies/. If that guy wasn't to blame, they were gonna be out of luck – at least they had a start, though. So they went back into the building, walking purposefully down the main corridor. They turned a key once inside the elevator so they could have access to the 18th floor, and the box rose upward, gaining in speed. Dean spots a security camera hiding in the corner of wood-panelled elevator, and winks at it. 

“Dude,” Sam complains, “Really?”

Dean shrugs, he has to do something to ignore the intense lurching of his stomach every time the number panel beeps, bestowing upon them the floor they're passing. At level 16, Dean rushes over to the door and waits for it to open on level 18. Once out, he takes a deep breath, and they both strut down the dark hallway. They peer into empty studios and lounges, no one's up here. This floor is reserved for employees, and apparently, dead bodies. Once they're midway to the morgue, they double check their pistols are loaded, and that they've got holy water, salt, iron, and silver on hand. They don't know what they're up against, so they have to be prepared. 

Creeping up by the door, Dean gestures for Sam to go in first. 

Sam shoulders it open wide, pointing his gun around the room, “Mr. Wallace!” He shouts, “It's agent Clark! We need to talk to you!”

The room is brightly lit, and silver cabinets cover all four walls. There's two medium-sizes tables in the center, with carts carrying tools for autopsies. It's kind of creepy, but no morgue is not creepy. The bowl of cookies sits on a clean desk in the far corner, in front of the only window. Dean goes over to it, and picks up one. 

“They look pretty normal to me.”

“No, duh, Dean. They're of course gonna look normal – it's the ingredients that count.”

Dean chuckles, “I forgot Sam, it's not what someone looks like that matters,” He touches heart with a mocking smile, “It's the inside that counts.”

“Shut up,” His brother groans, and points at the swinging doors on the left, “Check in there.”

Dean puts his back to the plastic doors, and peeks through the clear portion, no one's there. He slips inside, nosing about desks and sofas. It's just a resting room, rather small, and with a weird little stand in the back with a coffee pot on top. 

“I got nothing!” Dean shouts, about to return when he spots something. It's nearly impossible to see, most people would think nothing of it, but he has to. On the wall behind the desk, there are several cabinets installed into it. Each is labeled with someone's name, except one, which has a tiny yet heavy duty padlock on the handle. 

 

Sam is opening the body-drawers, and inspecting them briefly, then moving on. They smell of bleach and metal, an unpleasant combination. He hears the main door squeak open, and he whips about to look. He very nearly drops his gun.

“Sam?” Says a soft, hesitant, feminine voice.

His jaw opens, and his chest swells with a combination of dread and excitement, “Jessica?”

“Sam,” The woman repeats, stepping into the room nervously. Her hair is much longer than he remembers it, and a deeper gold, but she's just as beautiful. He could cry, but his mind has been trained to trust nothing and no one, so he lifts his pistol to direct it at her. It’s not her, he knows that for sure after just a few more seconds of close inspection. His heart is thudding, and it’s almost a relief it’s not her. But it's also sort of heartbreaking. After all these years, he’d still take her back in an instant. If she was real. “It's been a long time. I – I was told I'd find you here. What… What are you doing?”

“You're not her.”

Jessica's face falls, “What's happened to you? What are you doing in a place like this?”

Sam works his jaw, trying not to become emotional, /it was all too much/, “You're not real.”

“Why do you keep saying that? I'm here aren't I?”

A sickeningly sweet smell suddenly drifted over to Sam, it stunk of heavy syrup and brown sugar. His hands were shaking, but he managed to cock his gun and raise it a little higher. He didn't know how he knew it wasn't her, but it couldn't be, right?

“Sam, baby, what are you doing?” Jess questioned fearfully, her hands raising up in surrender. 

He couldn't answer, and just shook his head. He presses down on the trigger, and the bullet shot straight into Jessica's chest. Her eyes widened, her hands to her breast, and she fell forward onto her knees and then onto her side. Deep, red blood spilled from her, gushing out at violent rate and ringing the air with a bitter scent. 

Sam blinks, shocked at himself, and drops his pistol. Because it's /her, and she's dying and he killed her. He killed her. He killed her/. 

“Sammy!” He hears his brother's voice, but he can't react or respond. He hears the door to his left swing open as Dean comes into the room, and Sam finds that he's fallen to his knees, with his hands covering his face, “I found… Sam!? What happened?”Dean rushes over, setting down a jar and putting his hands onto Sam’s arms and peering at him, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Sam keeps shaking his head, attempting to rid himself of the sight of Jess’s dead body once again. /He could imagine her burning on the ceiling, as the wetness of her blood on his face evaporated in the fire/. Dean gets up, looking about, and spots a giant heap of popcorn and raspberry ice cream sauce near the front doorway. He doesn't understand what he's found, but he'd bet his life that whatever it was, it was something that terrified Sam moments ago. 

“It was her.”

“Huh?” Dean says, picking up the jar and grimacing at the contents. 

Sam stands, pulls back his hair, and runs a rough hand over his eyes, “It was Jessica.”

Dean's silent for a moment, then says reassuringly, “It wasn't her, she's home now. In a better place, now. It's alright,” Sam nods, “C’mon, let's check the rest of the floor, I think our culprit might come by soon.”

Sam takes in the container of eyeballs Dean found, and cringes at the sight. They're all red, and blotchy. The irises nearly gone and all just one, big, pupil. The backs of them still have the pink, fleshy, roots that keep eyes in their sockets, “Ew, God, what are those?”

Dean's shrugs, “The body's didn't have eyeballs, remember?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam takes the jar and holds it up to the light, “What's all those floating bits?”

“Er… Uh, well, I think they're pickling spices.”

They both flinch a bit at the thought. 

A voice from behind makes them jump, “Hello, Agents. How can I… Dear god, what /is/ that you're holding?”

Dean turned around first, and saw the morgue attendant standing in the doorway, “We were just about to ask you the same thing.”

“Ask me?” He shifted uncomfortably. 

“Yeah, seeing as we just found these in a cabinet in /your lounge/,” Dean appears to grow larger as he squares his shoulders and brings his gun out into the open. He's transformed from a worried brother, to an intimidating hunter. Sam has seen it so many times before, but this time seems slightly different. Dean seems angry. Not that he usually lacks all anger, but there's a deeper anger, or rather, /resentment/ that is surfacing. 

“I don't understand!” Yelps the man, putting his hands up in alarm. 

“Like hell, you don't!” Dean growls, then gestures with his pistol, “Come in here.”

“Okay, okay! I'm sorry! What do you think I did?”

“I think you're some kinda monster that gets off by killing people in freakish ways, and then saves their damn eyes to eat! Not to mention you have some fetish for using sugar as a weapon!”

The attendant’s mouth opens in surprise, and confusion engulfs him. Sam notices this, and immediately realises that this is not their guy. 

“Dean! Wait, wait. I don't think it's him.”

Dean glances back quickly then refocuses on the man, “Why not? We caught him with his hand in the cookie jar!”

“No actually, we didn't. Look at him, he's not it,” Sam argues. He tenses, preparing to step in to stop his brother from doing anything rash. Before he has to though, Dean backs down. Dean rubs a hand over his face. 

“Fine,” The elder Winchester takes a breath, “Has anything weird been going on around here lately?”

“Uh…” The morgue guys squeaks nervously, “Uh, you mean besides the deaths?”

“Yes, yes besides those.”

“No, I mean…” He makes the face. /The/ face. The face that always tells the brothers that whoever they're interrogating /has/ seen something or heard something abnormal. 

“What?” Dean probes, sounding impatient. 

“The, that officer woman, Officer Candice, from the police station?”

“What about her?”

“I'd never met her before until you two showed up. She came up here before you guys and gave me that bowl cookies and said…” He swallows, “And said I had the make sure you guys got one and ate it. And I had to give them to other people too. Or else…”

“Or else what?” Sam asks carefully, going to stand by Dean in the center of the bright room. 

“Or else she'd make my worse nightmare come true.”

“And you believed her?”

The man nods, “She – she made a bunch of animals appear, and turned the whole entire room upside down, to prove she had powers.”

Sam says, “Why didn't you say anything?” 

“Who would believe me? It was just some cookies, anyway.”

“Well now, Ms. Girl Scout, those damned cookies are killing people. Do you know where to find Candice?” Dean demands, an ounce of annoyance in his tone. 

The man shrugs, “The Police Station?”

Dean rolls his eyes, “Right. Okay. Thanks. We’re just going to take these,” He nods to the jar in Sam's hand, “And take care of this whole thing. Thanks. And sorry for…” Dean starts passing by the guy to leave, “Scaring you, or whatever.”

“Uh, no, yeah. It's okay.”

“Awesome,” Dean responds with disinterest, “C’mon, Sammy! Let's get going.”

They walk briskly down the corridor to the elevator. Sam studies Dean for a few seconds before saying, “You okay, man?”

“What? Yeah, I'm fine.”

“You seem… On edge.”

“Well maybe I just don't want anyone else getting hurt.”

Then Sam let's him be. The carriage halts at the tenth floor unexpectedly, and he instantly rushes to hide his jar behind his back. No use in people flipping out about it. 

“We can just tell them to catch the the next one,” Dean suggests just before the doors open. Sam agrees. 

Dean turns his attention to the person trying to enter the box, ready to shoo them away, but all he can do is gasp as he feels his stomach drop to the floor. ‘Fuck’, he thinks. 

“Hey Dean,” Drew smiles, his gaze drifting over the Winchesters smoothly and without question, “I wondered where you wandered off to.”

“I, uh, busy. With… Work,” Dean stumbles to answer. Sam casts them a questioning look as Drew enters the compartment. The elevator closes, and they start descending. 

“I'm Drew… Who’re you?” The Indian-born man introduces himself to Sam with a handshake. 

“I'm Sam. Dean's… Brother. Who are you?”

“Someone special,” Drew winks, and peers sideways at Dean, rounding on him, “So… Where were we?”

Dean can hardly move, or even think straight, this is so bad. So very bad. He doesn't want to deal with this – /any/ of this, “We weren't anywhere, in fact…” Dean stretches forth an arm to click the level six button so he can escape this disaster, “I was just getting off.”

The elevator stops again, dinging, and Dean slips by the others to get away. Far, far, away. If he could he'd evaporate, or turn invisible. But at least if he's here, he can stop Drew from spilling anything to Sam. He looks back the few feet to the carriage where Sam seems decently shocked, and Drew is just casually amused. Dean's brother is standing firm, keeping the jar hidden. Just as the doors begin to slide shut, Drew holds them back, exits, and follows the hunter. Then, like a parade, Sam comes after too; all Dean has succeeded in doing is moving the disaster into the hallway. 

It gets worse. 

He smells something like chocolate cake and donuts, and he wants it, needs it. It's an unnatural desire. He tries to fight it, but he can't do anything to stop Drew's lips from latching onto his own. Drew's hands are on his face, and Dean kisses back. He doesn't want to. He /has/ to. It's breathy, wet, and hot. He feels tongue and scruffy-cheeks. He pushes and pulls in return, but he's able to hold back a small amount. In his thoughts, he recognises that this isn't actually Drew. He realises this and thinks he might be able to get away, but to no avail. When he met them two years ago, they had halted their actions the /second/ Dean had muttered ‘stop’. Whoever this was, they had no intention of stopping. 

And then he hears a word, a name, being spoken from his brother. It's not his name. No it's… “Castiel?”

Dean's eyes flip open, the body beneath his palms has changed. ‘Oh God, I'm kissing Cas.’ 

Something weird like a vile poison rises in his throat, and he grows a bit stronger. He removes his hands from the man who he's /nearly-positive isn't/ Cas. He stops kissing back, but not-Castiel is still there. Dean sees his dark hair, and the shoulders of his trenchcoat, and for a brief second, he wonders what it would mean if it was Cas. But why in hell would Cas, of all people, ever kiss him? And then, for an ever briefer second, he thinks that ‘hey, kissing Cas isn't too bad’, and then, ‘I kind of like it.’

Then, there's a blazing light, and the scent of something burning. Dean backs away, or is thrown away, covering his ears as a terrible, high-pitched ringing fills them. He's tucked up against a wall. Once the sound ceases, he looks down the hall. Sam is in a similar position several feet away, and in-between them is Cas. At Cas’s feet, is a pile of ash. 

Dean's not sure if it's really Castiel or not, but he's fairly certain the ash is the fake-Cas. This one, is now chanting something weird in another language, and at the end of it he knicks himself with a blade to make his vessel bleed. The blood drips onto the blackened pile, and from the center a miniature tornado begins to spin. It grows larger, sucking in all the ash, and then it explodes like a miniature bomb, fading away and disappearing – in its place, is Officer Candice. A hefty piece of wood with something like blood covering it sharpened top, falls out of Cas’s sleeve into his hand. He takes it, and before Candice can even speak, he stabs her through the heart. The motion emits a rough smacking sound, and blood begins to spill as the Angel leaves the stake inside her, letting her fall to the floor in a heap. 

Surprisingly, the Officer is still just alive enough to mutter one last thing, “The /Angel said/ she'd save me… Bitch…” The life disappears from her, and the Winchesters are finally able to get up from the ground. 

“Cas?” Dean inquires immediately, rushing over to the celestial man urgently. 

The Angel is solemn, acting stoic. He and Dean stare at each other, and Sam stares at them both. The younger Winchester is awe of everything that just happened, and he's still trying to process it all. He can't quite form the questions he needs answers to, however he knows quite certainly, that he's missing some piece of the puzzle. 

Cas speaks gravelly, “It was a Trickster.”

And then there's a flapping of wings, and he's gone. 

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

“You promised the Trickster you would save them.”

“Yes, and you promised the damned creature wouldn't do something stupid.”

“You are the one who suggested I give it the hunter's memories!”

“Yes! But did you not see what happened? It's idiotic move could ruin us!”

“I don't understand how! You haven't told me anything about it!”

“Don't raise your voice at me, Ann. I could kill you in an instant.”

“...”

“What? What is that look?”

“It's just that…”

“Yes?”

“The Angel, they heard the Trickster mention me.”

“By name?”

“No. But soon enough they'll put two-and-two together and realise that Naomi isn't exactly running the show.”

“/Foolish/. You should have kept your identity a secret!”

“You're the one who said –”

“I don't care what I said! ….. Listen. /Listen/, can you contain them in anyway? You were ordered to tie them to Heaven, to keep them busy. What happened?”

“I did. I gave them so much to do. But it doesn't change the fact that they care about those humans.”

“Is it safe to keep them in Heaven?”

“You mean can we trust them to not go snooping? I don't think so. I believe they are clever enough to behave no differently, while at the same time infiltrating our forces and discovering the truth.”

“Okay… I have new plan.”

“Yes?”

“No, I don't need you for it.”

“But, Astar –”

“No! Don't speak my name.”

“What, why not?”

“Not here. Someone could be listening.”

“Where shall you go?”

“I've made a deal. And it's time someone makes good on their half.”

 

—•—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! The best of luck to everyone. 
> 
> Sorry if this chap is shorter than usual, it was actually double this length but I chopped it in two so you'll get a faster update. I think I might try and aim for 6k word updates? So they can be more frequent? No promises, just spit-ballin' here.
> 
> <3


	10. A Little Less Than Great

Several days earlier.

 

“Once upon a time…” The woman had restarted, “God attempted to create the first Angels, but not everything went to plan.”

Crowley had gave her his full attention, and conjured up a chair for himself. He sat down, settling in for long story. He put one ankle up on onto his opposite knee, resting it there. The smoky woman raised an eyebrow, and he merely shrugged. She'd offered him a deal, a tempting one. She'd bring hundreds of demons up from the Pit, make them loyal to him, and return she wanted only a few dozen for a short while. It /could/ be wonderful set up, but he trusted the woman about as far as he could throw a blue whale. 

“Instead he made the first monsters. The Earth was already created, the dinosaurs extinction was well under way, and he'd prepared everything to make humans. But he needed helpers, he needed more delicate hands to guide, shape, and protect the universe. He'd intended for them to be Masters of Light, he was creating them souls filled with more power than any humans’.”

She had drawn up a chair as well. Her’s was a velvet covered throne, reminding the King of his own back in Hell. 

“Except he filled us with more than he'd intended, and it became too much,” The ancient lady took a shuddering breath. Crowley squinted at her for it, unsure if it was an act or she truly was becoming emotional, “Most of my siblings exploded into stars. Some of them created galaxies and planets. Many of the elements and minerals on Earth are fragments of who my family was.”

“Then how are you – Highness of Darkness – here?”

She scowled at the title, but continued, “Five of us survived. And we became /The/ Elements.”

“Meaning?”

“My brothers became Terra, Ignis, Flumen, and Aeris.”

The demon recognised the names as Earth, Fire, Flood (aka Water) and Air – all in Latin. Her story was one he'd heard before. It wasn't in the Bible, or any other scriptures, but the oldest beings spoke of it. Angels had told the story many times, and Lucifer had whispered the tale in the first demons’ ears. 

“Then who’re you?”

“I'm the least desirable. Most forget me in the tales, but that gave me an advantage. Because I am the weakest, I was bound more loosely. I am Petra.”

“Your Stone?”

“Yes, I'm well aware how unappealing it is.”

“Well, Rocky,” Crowley chuckled, “Why would you want to save your stuck-up siblings any way?”

“I've been alone for millions of years. I miss them. I don't want to be alone any more. There's nothing more important than family.”

“You sound an awful like some pratts I know.”

“Will you help me?”

“You were threatening me before, girl, why do you seem so desperate?”

She droops, as though caught in a lie, “I'm not as strong as I lead you to believe. I /can/ get you demons, and make them loyal, I assure you. But in order to do it I must have permission and you must play a role in it.”

“What do you mean – I must play a role?”

“`And so it is said, that the ruler of the Pit must grant access, faith, and Dark Force to Petra in order to Widen the Pit, and let loose more sons of the Devil.`” Petra recited from memory. 

“Where's that from?”

“The Elementa Guide to the Universe.”

The King laughs at her monotone response and the name of the rule book, “Alright, alright. So say I do this, where will you and your brothers go? ‘Cus you can't have the Earth. Heaven and Hell have been at each other's throats for too long to add a third party into the mix.”

“We will leave this planet, and search out a new one in which to live out our lives.”

Crowley surveyed her. It all sounded just a little too perfect, “Where is your family? And why were they locked up in the first place?”

“God was selfish,” She spit out, “He claimed that we were too large, and that we could over power him. Which was a /lie/. He locked us away because he desired followers that were significantly weaker, he wanted people to follow him blindly and not question him. My family had free-will. These… These wretched Angels that rule over Heaven were given nearly none, they are puppets. He wanted to create the Earth his own way,” She snarled, “He wanted /slaves/, not /partners/.”

Petra stood up, her seat vanishing, and Crowley saw the smoke around her beginning to fall and crumble, turning into something solid like rocks, “He created Purgatory. He shut us up into the deepest reaches of that place, and left us there to age until the of days.”

The King got up as well, sweeping away his chair with a wave, “How did you get out?”

“You,” She faced him dramatically. 

“Pardon?”

“I was one of the sixty-six seals. Lilith ordered you to go to a mountain in Tibet, did she not?”

“She did…”

“That was the weakest point between my cage and Earth. There you performed an enchantment.”

“Yes… There was a landslide. And an earthquake.”

“That was me.”

“Then where have you been these past months?”

“Getting stronger. Forming a plan. Trying to understand this insane world I landed upside-down in.”

They both nodded at each other then, enough had been said. Crowley offered her a hand, “My dear, Petra. I do believe you've just struck a deal with the King of Hell.”

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

Sam won't stop looking at him. 

To be fair, it's better than him constantly pestering Dean about what the fuck just happened, but still. Dean didn't have time to mortified when the real Cas showed up, but now he felt it burning through his veins and grinding in his stomach. He runs through everything that occurred again and again and he can't believe how stupid he was to think that Drew was actually there. He almost wishes it had been him, because then he wouldn't have found himself snogging the Angel of the Lord. None of it makes sense, how would that Trickster know /anything/ about his past? Or his present, for that matter. Who could have given her all those details about that one night that passed by /two years/ ago? 

They leave the hotel without a word to one another, mostly due to Dean's constant scowling the second Sam acts as if he might breach the subject. The subject being, “Who the hell was that guy and why was he kissing you?” Dean honestly doesn't have a clue about either of the answers. Once they begin driving down the main drag again, the older Winchester feels the shift in the air, the tensing of a conversation. A fire being lit with a few sparks. 

Sam says quietly, delicately, “Who was he?”

Dean sighs, “He was no one important.”

“Where did you know him from?”

Dean sighs again, “I met him briefly two years ago. After we took out some demons in some town, I went to a bar. He sat down next to me, and… We talked.”

“What about?”

“Well, he basically dumped his whole life's story on me and I made snarky comments.”

Sam almost chuckles, but holds it back because he wants to get something from all of this, “Did you…”

Dean tenses in the driver's seat, he knows very well what next and he's not ready for it. He wonders for a moment if he should lie, but he thinks it's best to just lay it all out on the table now so he won't have to deal with it anymore, “Did I what?”

“Did you… Kiss him? Before, I mean?”

He lets air out through his teeth, “Yeah. Yeah, I… Did.”

“Were you ever going to tell me about it?”

They pass by the pyramid shaped hotel, and they hear loud music echoing out from it sweeping into the impala through their open windows. It's eighty degrees out, and they both want nothing more than to change out of their suits and chug a cold one. Whatever Cas had done in the hotel knocked everyone out within a fifty foot radius out hard. They had phoned the real police just before they left, they're most likely going to end up being confused as hell and there's a decent chance they'll look into the security camera footage… Dean and Sam don't want to worry about that right now. 

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because what did it matter? I'm not gonna share the details of my sex-life with you and really hope wouldn't share yours with me.”

Sam’s eyebrows raise, “You had –

“No! No. I'm just saying. It doesn't matter.”

Sam could've smacked him if he wasn't so tired. It /absolutely/ mattered. It mattered /so much/ he could write a book about it. If Dean likes guys too, it's not something he should hide or lie about or be ashamed of. Dean has had so much crap in his life for so long, he should at the /very least/ allow himself to care for /whoever/ he wants. Sam wants to say so many things to his brother but he doesn't want to fight about it. He just wants to tell them that this all completely okay by him, and that he needs to go easier on himself. 

“I'm not into dudes,” Dean interrupts his train of thought. 

“You know I wouldn't care, right? You know that there's such thing as liking more than one gender, right?”

“I'm not – I don't…”

“Dean,” Sam felt his insides roaring. He could read Dean so easily. It is so painfully obvious that his brother is battling these thoughts, these thoughts that Dean could be even more different than he already is. Sam bites the inside of his cheeks, then reopens his mouth, “Dean I can let you keep a lot a crap to yourself. I will let you care about every tiny thing we somehow screw up, I would've even let you never tell me about your nightmares or what Charlie did to you; you can't keep this in though. If you are,” Sam sat up straighter, commanding Dean's attention, “Are into men and women –”

“I'm good with the latter, thanks,” The agitated hunter growled. Except he was hearing Sammy. He was hearing every damn word no matter how much he didn't want to. 

“Just let me finish, okay?” Sam says in exasperation. Dean obliges with a nod of his head, “If you do like men and women, you need to know,” Sam’s voice breaks. He just wants Dean to know how critical this is, “That it's not a bad thing. Okay? It's not bad at all. Millions of people are gay or queer or bi, and the only thing standing in their way of being happy is this dumb society and themselves. We don't live with the normal society, rules like that don't apply to us. Listen, I get if you have reservations about picking a label and what not, but it's not about that. This is about you not lying to yourself, and accepting this as part of you, if it is!”

“Sammy… I don't…” Dean shakes his head, and he steers the Impala into the parking lot of their hotel, “How would I even know?”

“You would feel it.”

“How do know any of this stuff?”

Sam smiles, “I went to college, remember?”

“Only a year.”

“So? Do you at least get what I'm saying? I really don't care who you wake up in bed with as long as it's someone you genuinely connected with.”

Dean huffs with a smirk, “You make it sound like I take them out and get to know ‘em first.”

“Whatever,” Sam takes a deep breath, relieved that Dean is fairly calm and not getting all defensive and macho about this, “You understand.”

They get out of the car, slamming the doors, and entering the building. They pack up all their stuff, thank the desk attendant, and Sam immediately begins deleting stuff off his laptop and phone. Apparently he has some weird fear of becoming an insane fantasy football fanatic, so when he ate the cookie it made him go psycho for the game and constructed a team while keeping tally of their points and obsessively checking scores while they were out on the case. 

Just before they hop in their vehicle again, Sam asks, leaning against the front of it, “So... how was kissing Cas?”

Dean's face is priceless as he glares and flushes a bit red. Sam can't tell if it's in anger or embarrassment or both. But Sam laughs, “Falling for the Angel, Dean?”

“Alright, alright, that's enough,” Dean complained starting to get into the car. 

“He looked pretty into it.”

“Shut your face, get in the car.”

Sam opens his door, “The Angel and the Hunter, star-crossed lovers, right?”

“Shut up,” Dean repeats with little true malice. They settle into the car, Sam leering at his brother. Dean flips him the bird, and he chuckles. 

 

Several hours later, they stop for gas off the side of the highway. Again they've landed themselves in Colorado, wherever they are it's stuffy and smells of spilled chemicals, but at least the mountains on the horizon are a nice view with the full moon glinting off them. Dean steps into the convenience store, snatching up some chips and soda – he doubts the cashier will sell him alcohol this late at night. It's some sort of new law, or some crap like that. Except when he arrives at the register, there's no one there. He sets down his goods, peering behind the counter and calling out into the shop. There's no response. He is pleased there's not some bloody body lying about, though. He glances up at the circular mirror hanging on the wall that shows the hidden portion of the candy aisle, and he gasps. There's Cas staring straight back at him through it. 

“We don't have much time,” Cas says, suddenly behind the hunter and grabbing his wrist and slicing it partially open with a knife. Dean flinches in pain, and again as the Angel mixes his own blood with Dean's into red, swirly mess. Dean watches in awe as he traces a strange, snowflake-like symbol onto the nearest flat surface, and faces Dean quite seriously. Blood is staining the man’s trenchcoat, and Dean for some reason can't stop looking at it. Then he remembers that the last time Cas saw him, he was making out with his doppelgänger. 

“Where the hell have you been, Cas?”

Castiel seems anguished, he says, "It's complicated."

Automatically this annoys Dean, he's been so damn worried about the fool Angel, he deserves a real explanation, "Dumb it down then."

Cas studies him, all too ready to stand solid against their pleas, "The Angel who has taken charge of Heaven, Naomi, she believes that I'm… That I'm..."

"What?" Dean says, confused. 

"That I'm getting too close to humanity. To you. She has taken over since the days of Raphael, and she is well aware that I betrayed the Angels to instead work with you..."

Castiel's first words sound unsettlingly familiar; /I've been getting too close to the humans in my charge. You/. 

"– and to Sam. She thinks that I'm becoming more human than angel, and that my loyalties are divided."

Dean eyes sweep open over him. He looks disheveled and tired. He looks like he could use a couple weeks worth of sleep, and maybe some coffee with food of all sorts, “They're mad at you for betraying Heaven when you were just trying to stop the friggin’ Apocalypse?”

“Yes,” Cas replies as though this should be a very logical assumption. 

“How does that even make since? And what's this voodoo you did?” Dean gestures at his own bleeding arm. 

“To turn your back on one Angel, is to turn your back on them all. And the fact that I went against them and worked with /humans/ instead,” Cas sighs, “Makes it all the worse.”

“Those winged-bastards are really screwed up in the noggin, aren't they?”

“I…” Cas mumbles tentatively, “I wouldn't say that. They have just been taught, for a long time, the same thing.”

“And what's that?”

“That Angels are superior to humans in every way, except we must bow down to humans because our father commanded it.”

“Why listen to him?”

“Why did you listen to your father?”

Dean's silent, “I guess I wouldn't want a bunch of Angels taking over anyway… Um. So, your loyalties apparently seem divided, your superior is pissed at you –”

“No,” Cas interjects firmly, “No, my loyalties are not divided.”

Dean can feel himself harden a bit at the words, “So you've chosen Heaven, and that's why you haven't been here.”

The other makes a baffled expression, “Don't be ridiculous. Dean…” They inch closer, their shoes scuffing slightly on the tile. The symbol they painted is glowing dully, and releasing a buzzing noise, “I chose you a long time ago. The moment I flipped on Zachariah, the second I slaughtered Raphael, when you saw me kill an Angel for the first time… I was lost to Heaven the instant I laid a hand on you in Hell,” The Angel speaks his truth louder than normal, to be sure the self-righteous man before him hears him, “Naomi, Heaven, all of that. I don't trust it for a second. Besides, something is wrong with Heaven.”

"Then why stay with them?! Whatever's going on...we need you here, man,” Dean butts in, thinking of the Trickster's ominous last words and the strange suicides.

"That's what I was planning on telling you."

Dean waits. And waits. Cas shifts back and forth, like he's got a dirty little secret. Dean spots Sam outside waving dramatically like he's been trying to get their attention for a long time. He waves back, and motions for him to come in. However, apparently whatever Cas did is keeping his brother out.

“Let Sam in.”

“No. He cannot hear what I am about to tell you.”

“Well!” Dean fusses, “Hurry up then!”

Cas gives him a look like he's disappointed in how little patience the hunter has, then queries, “What do you remember… Of Hell, Dean?”

“Too much. Why…? What do I not know?”

“When I raised you from perdition,” Cas begins, “You were not human.”

Dean's heart skips a beat, “What?”

“You were already halfway to being a demon. You had only burned for forty years, but your soul was blackening and turning to smoke, your goodness was dying out.”

“I don't understand…”

“Just wait,” Castiel wasn't blinking, nor did it seem he was breathing, he almost acted nervous, “You were not meant to come back whole. You were meant to come back half dead and willing to give up your life. You… Were – are,” He corrects himself, “The vessel of an Arch Angel.”

“So… So…” Dean tries to wrap his brain about it all, “So I'm half demon right now? And Michael thought it would be easier to wear me as a meat suit if I was ?”

“No, quite the contrary. You were /supposed/ to come back like that.”

“But I didn't…” Dean finishes the thought, “Well, that's good right?” He asks with heavy doubt, “But what's the problem then?”

“Before I saved you, I knew already that something was wrong. There were whisperings of Armageddon, and because I commanded the Elite Angels, I was told about some of it. It was why they recruited me for the task. As head of the Elite, I knew the heavens of souls better than almost anyone else. I could navigate through hell to find you, because, as they say, ‘one man's heaven is another man's hell.’ I had… Taken to humanity. As had some others, and there was talk of not having the Apocalypse. Many Angels were confused as to why we would be told to destroy humanity by God, after having to save them for thousands of years. Most, were simply fearful of change. But I – I knew Armageddon was just a way for the Angels to be rid of the lesser species they've been forced to be slaves to.”

“You talk about them like you're not one of them.”

Cas looks down shamefully, then back up, “When I cured you of the darkness… I didn't really cure it.”

Dean cocks his head in interest and moderate concern, “What did you do with it? To it – I mean. Or…Whatever.”

“I took it.”

“You took it?” Dean repeats skeptically. 

“I took the dark part of your soul and replaced it with a piece of my grace. I have the dark part of you inside me, and if I have it long enough, I will purify your soul.”

“Woah,” Dean puts his hands up, “You have part of /my/ soul inside you, and you never told me?” He's incredulous, “And not only that, I have /Angel grace/ in me? What does that mean? Do I get fancy powers?”

“No you don't get ‘fancy powers’. I… apologise for not informing you sooner.”

“Yeah?” Dean's glaring then, uncomfortable and irritated, “Well why didn't you?”

“If I had told you then you would never have trusted me. I was some new creature you had never even considered existing. To drop the angel and soul bomb on you at once would've been too much.”

“What makes now any better? Don't you think I'll trust you less since you've been lying to me for over a year?” His whole body language changes, shifting to anger and betrayal, “What was the point of saving me anyway?!”

“I will not have this conversation again.”

Dean bristles, “What conversation?”

“The conversation where I try and convince you of your worth and you dismiss my words like they're nothing.”

“I don't do that.”

“You do. And you did it right there.”

Dean bites back a defensive response, in favor of taking a deep breath, “So… So why tell me now?”

Castiel pauses before giving his reason. Dean's emotions are so strong right now, he can barely feel his own. He feels the betrayal, and anger, and impatience. Yet he also senses the man’s absolute relief and some form of happiness. Cas thinks that maybe Dean's reacting positively to his reappearance. That was the intention, after all. To take a load off Dean's mind rather than add another to it. The hunter’s anxiety had been eating away at him, and he'd become paranoid, and eventually desperate to show the man he saved that it wasn't a mistake, and that Cas himself was fine and would /never/ leave him. How could he when they had such a bond?

“Dean… I wanted you to know that I'm okay. I wanted you to understand why I can't stay.”

“You're leaving again?”

“Yes.”

“But why not stay here?”

“I told you, Heaven is broken, there is a poison running through it. I need to find out what and who and what for. However, if… If Naomi or any other Angel were to discover that you are not all human, and I am not all Angel… They would kill us both.”

The hunter runs a hand over his face, leaning back against the counter and setting down the empty plastic bag he was going pack his stuff into. Cas continues, “And not only must I stay, I must prove my loyalty to Heaven. If I do not… I will be sent away to be retrained, and there they will discover my humanity, and by default, your grace. If I were lucky, I would end up dead. But it's more likely that in that situation they would only kill you, and I'd be Trained.”

“You say that like it means something else,” Dean comments, he's processing all this with great difficulty, but he keeps listening in fear he'll miss something. 

“Training. They say it's where you go to greet God. They say, ‘you see the light’ and remember what the universe was before us. It's suppose to teach us to be strong, and fierce, but instead we master the art of being heartless and cruel. It turns us into creatures that don't see others as alive. Or even ourselves as alive. We become pawns to whoever is in charge. It's where we are stripped of our free-will and are dictated by those still with it – and using it wrong.”

“What do you think they're doing now?”

“I found tears in the fabric Heaven. In all of the places those ghosts came from.”

“The suicide ghosts?”

“Yes, those. But they are unusual. It's not as if those souls were yanked out of Heaven, they were pushed.”

“You mean… You think an angel is behind it?”

“It's most likely. No other creatures have access to Heaven. And those that do, don't have powers like that.”

Dean bites his lip, “And so you're staying to figure out who does.”

It's wasn't a question. 

“I'm the only one who can, Dean. If I don't stop this before it's too late, it could become as big as the Apocalypse.”

“You're right,” Dean straightens up, gathering together his stuff and tossing a ten onto the counter, feeling generous, and also like he has to do what's best for the world, not himself, “You're right. But one thing.”

Cas tilts his head. Dean puts a hand onto their shoulder, “We are going to stop this. Team free-will, right? Don't think you have to do this alone. We’ve all been down that road, and found it just doesn't work like we think it might. All we have, ya know, is each other.”

Dean sees the corner of Castiel's mouth lift up a bit, and Dean feels something swell up in his chest. He knows it means Cas is grateful, and that they're accepting the offer of teamwork. Then Dean recalls that the last time he was this close to Cas they were kissing, and the something in his chest grows heavier. He shuts his eyes, and sighs, and turns around to start leaving the convenience store, “You going now?”

“Yes. I think it's best I go. I should have departed sooner. But I… Dean, there's something else.”

The hunter perks up, what more could there possibly be?

“I can feel everything you can feel. Every emotion. Whenever you're fearful or concerned or happy, I can feel it inside me. Inside your soul.”

Dean is speechless. He feels like he's just been told Cas spies on him the shower. A thousand thoughts run through his mind, and he suddenly seems to gain 100 pounds of weight, “That's bullshit.”

“It's true.”

“No, I believe you, but the fact that you did that is bullshit.”

“I didn't choose to do it,” Cas stands firm even with the hunter squaring up and clenching his jaw, “It is a consequence of having it in me.”

“Then why the hell can't I feel yours?” Dean's fuming, twisting the plastic bag around his fingers and cutting off some blood circulation. 

“Because I gave to you the part of my grace that is broken.”

“How was it broken? And why give me the crappy piece?”

“I gave you the part that kept me from emotion. While I purify your soul, you are teaching my grace how to feel.”

Dean's not sure what to say. It's all extraordinarily overwhelming and impossible sounding. He can't quite sort out what thinks about it. Is he mad? He glances at Cas, and at once he's more at ease. He supposes that if anyone were to sense his emotions, he'd rather have it be Cas than anyone else. He could trust them not to judge. There's another moment of staring. The hum of refrigerators and growling of the ice machine fill the quiet, the Keno board in the corner turning a rank shade of blue every time a new number is announced. Sam's probably concerned about how long they've been in here, and Dean is slightly worried because Cas claimed he had to ‘be quick’; years could've passed since the Winchester first walked in here, and he wouldn't be surprised. 

Abruptly, the ground begins to quake. 

The blood sigil Castiel painted burns out, and said Angel covers his ears with a groan. Dean can't hear it, but whatever it is, it must be retched. The shelves in the shop flip upwards, spilling their contents everywhere and landing with a boom. Dean drops his bag as the fluorescent lights shower sparks over them, the store going dark. This is quickly followed by the exploding of the windows, thick shards of glass flying into the darkness. Dean gets to the ground, covering all vital organs and his head as best he can. He hears Sam shout, somehow, but instead gets into a cat crawl and searches for Cas amongst the wreckage. He spots him also on the floor, possibly hissing in pain, their hands pressed to their ears. Neither of them anticipates when two seconds later the entire roof is ripped clear off, sending massive chunks of wood, metal pipes, and wires to the rubbish covered tiles on top of the food stuffs and shelving units. A glowing figure with wings appears above, bright, angry, and burning with blue fire.

“CASTIEL.”

Dean gets to his knees just as Cas stands up. 

“Cas! No! Get the fuck back down!”

The man sends the human a look that says shut up, and keeps going. 

“CASTIEL, ANGEL OF THURSDAY, CAPTAIN OF THE ELITE. YOU WERE WARNED AGAINST COMING HERE.”

The blue person sinks lower in the sky, it's bright wings stretching the width of the stores walls and beyond. 

“YOU HAVE PROVEN YOURSELF A DISOBEDIENT CHILD OF HEAVEN. BY THE POWER GRANTED IN ME FROM OUR LORD, I HEREBY EXCOMMUNICATE YOU FROM ANY AND ALL RELATIONS TO HEAVEN. YOU NO LONGER BEAR THE TITLE OF ANGEL, AND HAVE NO ACCESS TO THE PURITY AND POWER OF HEAVEN.”

Castiel can't fight or even speak as a white light floats from Naomi's silhouetted form and engulfs him entirely. He feels himself raising five, ten, fifteen feet into the air. Dean watches from below, and Sam as well. Cas’s wings are unfurled for all to see, shining a golden light down that brightens the earth for miles around. The brothers blink against the light. An intense buzzing is occurring, flattening grass and snapping the power lines. The wires come crashing down, nearly setting fire to themselves. The posts come after, tipping sideways and falling with a crash. The sky storms next, the clouds flickering electric red and orange, as though on fire. Heaven is deranged with anger. Cas and the other Angel continue glowing brighter, and Dean stumbles out of the dilapidated building and to his car, crouching down behind it next to Sam. 

“OUR FINAL ACT UPON THEE, CASTIEL THE BETRAYER, WILL BE  
TONDE ALARUM TAURAM SPERABUNT.”

There's a flash of lightning, perhaps just a single bolt, or possibly hundreds all at once. It blinds the Winchesters, making them cringe away. It's red and orange and shatters the covering of clouds and smog instantly. For a brief few seconds, the Milky Way is visible far, far above, then fades again. Where Cas was, is something that looks like an exploding star. Plumes of glittering dusts and gases eject from the roaring ball, releasing circlets of colour that accelerate away from it in rings like a nuclear bomb has gone off. The buzzing halts, and the blue person dims. All that is left of Cas in the sky is a dark shadow. The other Angel, directs their body down back into the rubble of the building, hiding them from view of the brothers. Then, the Angel’s wings tuck in, and they disappear. 

Dean's in the convenience store again faster than humanly possible, he calls out Cas's name several times, not getting a response. He moves aside a hundred boxes of junk food to peer over a hill of rubble, and atop a heaping pile of wreckage lays Castiel.

“Cas!?”

There's no movement. 

“Cas,” Dean maneuvers his way through the junk, avoiding sharp, dagger-like materials. He crouches down when reaches his friend, putting his hands on the sides of their face, stretching his fingers up behind their head and into their hair, “Cas.”

Dean bends closer, pressing their foreheads together. He breathes carefully, shaking a bit, “Cas…”

He feels movement beneath his hands, and he could cry. He knows Sam has come up behind them, and let's go of Cas a little. 

“Dean? Is he…” Sam asks desperately. 

“He's alive,” Dean tells him. Not mentioning his fear that it might just be Jimmy Novak, “He's alive.”

The elder looks down at the man he's holding; their soft cheeks and disheveled, ash-filled hair, their rounded lips and gentle nose covered by black particles. Then, their eyes blink open, and Dean peers into a blue masterpiece. 

Cas swallows, and it sounds a little pained, “Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking I'm going to have to split this fic into two. Like, this will be "book one" and then I'll write the "sequel". I still need to do so much with this story, and I don't want it to be 100k words all in one. 
> 
> You'll know when I end this part, it still won't be for a while. 
> 
> Also, I started a new fic called "It's a Long Way Down". It's Dean/Cas (punk!dean photographer!cas) with lots of angst and family problems. BUT with shorter chapters, and will be pretty frequently updated! Check it out if you have any interest.


	11. E M O T I O N

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I've been working on the for 8 months! Just wow. Thank you guys who've stuck around this long. It means a lot. 
> 
> Warnings for a panic attack and just some general really intense emotions (fear, sickness, etc.). 
> 
> Happy Valentine's! Wishing you all well <3 Also, I think the end of this long update is very appropriate for the holiday.

“There is some kind of a sweet innocence in being human- in not having to be just happy or just sad- in the nature of being able to be both broken and whole, at the same time.”  
-C. JoyBell C.

 

You know when you pick up a jar or a box and you expect it to be a lot heavier than it actually is, so you end up lifting it up too fast and for a few seconds you're just standing there in shock? That's what happened to Castiel when he attempted to stand. He pushed Dean away, and made to get up, doing so successfully, however with too much force causing him to go stumbling forward into his friend’s arms anyway. For a moment, he just holds on. Eyes wide open, mouth gaping, and heart hammering. His heart has never done that before, he cannot fathom what the pounding in his ears is, or why his vision is blurring. 

For what seems an eternity, there is silence within the destroyed convenience store. 

“Hey, man, you okay? You're – you're…” Dean begins, finding himself incapable of finishing. 

Castiel takes a deep breath, and sniffles. Oh, he's crying. He wipes the back of his hand beneath his nose, then onto his dirtied trenchcoat. He ambles backwards, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and shaking fiercely. He's aware of his body in a way he has never been before. He can feel every ache and pain, all the itches and roughness of dirt on his face. Cas feels fragile. Like he could tip over with the slightest push, or by a mere gust of wind. He's soiled to the bone; both emotionally and physically drained. He might faint – a darkness is swarming at edges of his sight, and still he is shaking. 

“Hey, Cas,” Says the younger Winchester with concern, “You don't look to great. Let us help you to the car, alright?”

And then with everything spinning, Cas has lost all his will to stand, and he collapses entirely. Sam and Dean rush over, turning the angel over and each taking him by one shoulder. They support him like crutches, except it's like he doesn't have legs at all so they just drag him carefully through the mess. 

“Heavier than he looks,” Dean comments.

“What you were you two talking about? What happened?” Sam asks, kicking aside several cereal boxes. Dean bites his lip, weary of his answer, and adjusts Cas’s position when the man begins to slip. 

“He was explaining that someone in Heaven made those ghosts, made Charlie, come back.”

They're out of the wreckage now, only a straight walk to the car by the gas pumps is left. Down the street, a shrill sound erupts. The telephone poles are lifting, their thick, black wires reconnecting and tightening along the top. Within seconds, every log of wood is uptight once more, as if nothing happened. And with the most terrifying growl, the roof of the store begins mending itself, lifting into the air and floating over to its rightful location. 

“Holy shit,” Sam swears. 

“You can say that again.”

Next the windows puzzle themselves together, refitting into their frames neatly. Cas is lying, still passed out cold, in the rear of the impala. The two hunters watch the restructuring with fearful amusement. As relieved as they are that news stations won't flip their shit – only something powerful as hell has the juice to abra-cadabra a building back together. 

“We going home?” Dean checks as he pops in behind the wheel. 

“Where else?”

Dean shrugs, starts the engine up, and without a backward glance he rockets out onto the countryside road, taking an entrance back up onto the highway, and plays chase with semi-trucks and compact cars. He's never managed to get himself stuck in traffic, and he sure as hell ain't going to start now. It's 6am central time, they're crossing the state border over into Kansas, and Cas still is yet to move at all. Dean's mulling over all the new information he got. It makes sense, he supposes. Now he understands how Cas knows when he's hurt, or if he thinks something bad is going on, and why Cas always seemed able to say exactly what was on Dean's mind. The part that scares him the most, is that /his soul was blackening/. He remembers that he/thought/ he was turning into a demon. But he had known that was ridiculous, it takes hundreds of years for the process to be to be complete. However, if what Cas had said was true, then perhaps someone had stepped in to make his transformation go quicker. 

They don't stop for food or the restroom, they just go straight home. When they reach Lebanon, parking outside the bunker, they try and wake Castiel up again. He's breathing just fine, and isn't bleeding from anywhere, so that's good, but it's a gonna be a hassle to move him again. 

“Hey there, Cas,” Dean says, prodding their arm, “You're pretty damn heavy so if you could wake up that'd be great.”

After several minutes of this, they contemplate picking him again, but there's a ton of stairs and they don't want to, like, drop him. Sam eventually finds a solution. He pulls out an old stretcher made of thick cloth and long wooden poles. They settle the angel into that, each taking a side, and lifting him down the front steps, through the door, along the walk-around balcony thing, down the stairs, and at last into the nearest bedroom. They tilt the hammock sideways until Cas rolls onto the bed in a mess of trenchcoat and dirt. 

“Should we…” Dean swallows cautiously, “Take off his coat?”

“Yeah, okay. I'll lift him up. You get it off.”

Sam extends an arm beneath Cas’s, sitting them up. Dean tentatively yanks the tails of the coat out into the open, and nudges the trench off their shoulders, and then each arm. Sam let's Cas back down, and Dean tosses the jacket over one arm. 

“What are you gonna do with it?” Sam gestures at him. 

“Wash it, I guess. I think he'd probably flip out if I did anything else.”

Sam smiles at this, nodding, and leaves with a, “I'm gonna go get cleaned up. You should too. And… I guess find where you're going to sleep.”

Oh yes. Because Dean's bed is otherwise occupied. Not that he minds, not really. It almost makes him feel better, knowing that Cas is right there. Safe. At the same time though he knows something is really wrong, but the angel has to wake up before he can find out what. 

He throws in a load of laundry, sipping a beer, and tosses together some food with what little non-perishables they had left in the cupboard. There's some boxed macaroni and cheese with a dozen of those pillsbury-dough-boy biscuits. He brings Sam a bowl, who is grateful for the nourishment. They sit in the Yeti Cave, the computer screens blinking and flashing, popping up with statistics only the tech geek can comprehend. Sam explains that all strange suicides have ceased, the last one being two days ago. He also says that Bobby has got a ton of stuff on necromancy that all holds some potential. 

“We got a witch into necromancy, then?”

“Not just any witch, though. An old one. He suspects it's Flora, they were the most feared in Sweden in the 19th century. They disappeared and no one ever heard from them again.”

“So she had some witchy fetish for suicides and killed a ton of people for no apparent reason?”

“Mm hmm,” Sam mumbles, hunching forward to peer at a particular screen. 

“Alright, well, how do we find out for sure if it's her.”

“Well firstly it's a he, and Bobby's still finding out about that.”

Dean stands, collects the dishes, and refreshes both of their drinks. He peeks into his room on his way down the hall, and sighs. Cas is there, in his black suit and white shirt. His socked feet are pulled up so he lays in corkscrew position. He's just sleeping, that's all. Dean returns to the Cave, bumping through the door and nearly tripping on the wheeled chair right in front of it. He steadies himself, and glares at Sam. 

“The hell, man? Keep your chair under your ass why don't ya?”

“Dean take a look at this,” Sam's voice is barely audible. 

Dean blinks, clenches his teeth together, and braces for the worst. He stands by Sam, facing a large, glowing, screen in the pitch dark of the room. He stares at it, not sure what he's meant to be seeing. The screen is chopped into six pieces, like they're viewing security footage. 

“This is a live broadcast, all this is happening right now.”

It shows the front of several different shops. A coffee place, a café, a thrift store, and a few others. The strange bit is, is that entering each is about four people, all dressed in suits. Once inside, the blinds start being drawn, the open signs flipped to closed. Dean focuses on the front of a laundromat, a dark haired man draws the curtain just as a regularly dressed woman walks by outside. The man’s eyes flicker black. Then the fronts of all the shops are shut up, and Dean's certain the humans inside are about to be toast. 

Sam let's out a shaky breath, “That's here.”

“What?”

“That's here. In Lebanon. Those demons are here.”

Dean turns to Sam, “Well we gotta go! We gotta go, /now/. They're gonna kill all those people!” He spins around, and starts dashing down the tiled corridor. It's a regular thing, running. They've both mastered it over the years, they've had to. Because sometimes you can outrun your problems, and sometimes you never can, so Dean has just kept running, to make sure they never catch up. He glances back once he's reached the corner, and Sam hasn't even exited the room, “Sam!”

A long-haired head pokes out, “Dean it's too late.”

Dean steps back, furrowing his brow in frustration, “Dammit Sammy it's never too late. Now hurry up, if we get our asses movin’ we can save some people and gank some sons-of-bitches.”

Sam leaves the Cave, giving Dean the /just listen/, look, “And then what? There were dozens of them, they're probably in the whole town. We’re crazy outnumbered. We got one knife.”

“I'm sorry?” Dean says in disbelief, “But when has that ever stopped us before? We are damn fools that go after everything equipped with only the hope we won't die and that no one else will. Sam, we can't just leave ‘em to die.”

“I know we can't. I know we can't, but what else can we do?”

“I just freakin’ told you. We gotta try.”

Sam pushes his hair back and turns into the Cave. He would love to save these people, he feels guilty already about it, but this is too much. It's a suicide mission, and he's surprised he's the one speaking up about it. Usually, Dean is the one that says something is too dangerous, but apparently not today. He flips the screens to shots of the inside. He’s only managed to hack into two of the store systems so far, at least that'll give them some idea of what's happening behind the walls. He's watching the coffee shop, the demons are holding all the customers up against the walls with whatever power it is some of them seem to have access to. A blond woman, in a barista uniform is crying and seemingly begging with the demon, it's face is hidden from Sam though. Three other people are slammed against the blue and red wallpaper, some in shock, two bleeding from their foreheads. And then, something strange happens, even stranger than the demons showing up in the first place. One of the demons, a raven-haired female in a sharp dress-suit, presses her palm onto the forehead of the blond. Immediately she crumples to the floor. Then the demon does the same to the other three characters, each falling in a heap. Sam notices on the outskirts of the frame his vision is confined to, that a foot and a hand are resting on floor as well. He looks to the footage of the thrift store, and a similar thing is underway. A demon is touching the people, and they are collapsing. Are they dead? Are they knocked out? 

He pulls his chair to him, sitting down and frowning. He rests his chin on his hands, biting his tongue. The connection to both the establishments is weakening, the video lagging and a salt-n-paper screen flickering onto them both at irregular intervals. It's most likely a repercussion of the demons’ presence. The floor of the thrift store is visibly shaking, Sam thinks /earthquake/ but knows that's ridiculous, except it's happening in the coffee shop as well. Then, the windows of both shops shatter, and Sam has half the mind to retreat back to the six screens showing the six storefronts. All of them are blasted open, which is ironic since they took such consideration with shutting the blinds. Unless… Someone else was doing this? To try and stop it? Sam thinks that could be plausible, until the tornadoes of black smoke tunnel through the windows. He switches back to the inside shots, and witnesses the new demons take home in the human body's that were just abandoned. The people rise up in horrific unison, all eyes blinking and black. A demon army.  
~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Much to Crowley's disliking, /Petra/, is standing in the middle of his throne room, and scrutinising every inch of it. Don't worry, he got the nautical theme cleaned out, and made triple sure it appeared darker and crueler than ever. He even went so far as to bring a dozen new souls up from the torture rooms and have them located in a nearby vicinity so their blood-curdling screams could be heard echoing up and down the corridors. Crowley grins smugly as the woman glances at the ceiling and grimaces at the thousands of bloodied and rusted swords (also daggers, arrows, spears, hooks, axes, bayonets, and many more assorted weapons) hanging from chains and glittering threateningly in the fire light. He's handpicked his most intimidating demons, in their most eye-catching livery to line the way up the his throne. Theodesia, looked absolutely stunning in her pirate uniform, so Crowley let her keep it and she now stands just off to the left of chair. 

Petra has a slow gait and she comes forward across the velvet rug to the bottom of the steps of his platform, and she does a formal curtsy, lifting her skirts and bowing her head. 

“Your /Majesty/,” She drawls, and instantly the King’s pissed. She's mocking him, she doesn't mean it at all, “How /wonderful/ it is to be here.”

He squints, “Yes, had it cleaned up just for you.”

“Your Highness,” She whispers, keeping her head facing him but her eyes flicker around, “I think we best discuss our work in private.”

“Shall we now?”

Crowley stands, a cup of brandy popping into his hand as he takes a sip, “We are in Hell, we play by my rules here, Stoney. Now if you want my permission, or whatever the hell it is you need from me, then I gotta make sure you don't double cross me, and these guys,” He gestures at the other demons, “These guys are my insurance.” 

“Your insurance?” She chuckles, her teeth dazzlingly white, “Why, the King of Hell needs bodyguards! Will the wonders never cease? Don't tell me,” She smirks, “Bet you have a personal driver too, bet someone makes you tea and tucks you into bed at night, too. Huh? Can't take care of yourself, big guy?”

Crowley fumes, /she can't speak to him like that/! “Watch it, girl. I don't need you. I could lock you up right here and now – throw you back into that crusty prison you came out of,” He goes down the steps, glaring sharply at the woman, and dramatically pours his brandy out, letting it drip and splatter all over the carpet and on her feet, “I don't need you,” He lowers his voice, “And if you don't want me to put a price on your forehead you best listen to me. Now –” He sets his empty glass down and turns to address his silent audience, “This woman is here to grow our numbers and provide a united and strong front to the damn Angels and hunters, what she can do will increase our soul income by 200%, according to a secretary in Arizona with shockingly nice abs,” He adds without pausing, “But anyway, open the gates to the Pit, light the way, and stand guard on the outside. Don't want any of you cowards getting sucked back in because you're not strong  
enough.”

In unison, the demons do just as he asks, and begin marching through the large wooden doorway, and down a dark hall lit only by torches. Their shoes clang on the stone flooring like ominous background music as Crowley smiles with false-sweetness and takes Petra by the arm to escort her to the Pit. 

Most people think that's just a figurative name, but nope, it's actually a pit. It's about three hundred meters in diameter, 470 in circumference, and infinitely deep. There are literal levels in Hell. The deeper you are cast in the Pit, the worse torment you'll have, because it takes more to break you down. After a few hundred years, souls begin ascending the levels so their pain grows lesser and lesser. Eventually, they reach the top lip of the gaping hole, and either they climb out, or are sucked back inside to become even /more/ of an abomination. It's a complex but simple process, though unfortunately for Crowley he has no power over it, he can't make them raise faster or let them start on a higher level, he can't even go down the steps that circle around the entire inside for fear he’ll get pulled in himself. The King didn't use to have that problem, but ever since he teamed with the Winchesters /that one friggin’ time/ the Pit has been tugging at him to go back in. That being said, he's been out of there long enough to sort of stand against it and no one else has noticed the problem, so it's really not that big of deal. Or at least, he tells himself that as him and Petra step nearly to the edge. 

The Pit is surrounded rocks and dirt and corpses, littered all the way around, and encircling it are immense cliffs that stretch upwards into darkness. No demon fully understands how Hell works. 

Crowley's men stay outside the gates just as he ordered, and Petra has a small smile on her face. 

“Why do I feel like I'm walking into a trap?” He ventures out loud. 

“Well, I am quite the catch,” The raven-haired girl replies. Gems twinkle around her neck and fingers, her gown is even longer and even blacker than last time he saw her, and she seems oddly… Pleased. But not about this, not about their bargain or Crowley's attitude or even her clever retort; he recognises the expression because he's made it a thousand times. Whenever a deal goes well, he collects a soul, or he dupes some more powerful asshole and gets something decent out of it. It's the winning face. 

“Why're you so cheery?” He questions, unable to deny his curiosity. 

She hums, red eyes wide and pupils large, “Oh, I'm just excited to do the spell is all.”

“Right…” Crowley says, unconvinced, “Let's get this show on the road then. No need to dally here gossiping like a bunch of school girls, you got what we need then, eh?” 

“Yes,” She assures, and with a flick of a finger a table topped with a bowl and a dozen ingredients appear, “Here we go then. Now, I'll need that drop of your blood now to insure the demons will be loyal.”

The King is weary of her eagerness, she's just a bit too ramped up, and makes him worry. He takes a small pin off the rickety wooden table, and plucks his skin with it. Immediately, a small droplet of blood swells up, lingering there as he awaits further directions. 

“Now…” Mumbles Petra as she draws out a symbol in purple liquid, and smashes some age-old bones in a bowl, “Let it fall in here, the closer to the center the better.”

She adds in some frothy, yellow water, followed by an ounce of black dust. Crowley knits his brows as he lets his blood fall into the bowl, the second it breaks the surface, a shrill screech resounds from the Pit. He cringes, “Is that suppose to happen?”

“Yes,” She tells him, muttering something under her breath as she lights some various plants on fire in a circle around the bowl, “We are messing with something as old as creation itself, there's bound to be a little /noise/.”

Crowley huffs in resentment, adjusting himself so he stands between her and the gate out. She stops incanting, and the entire table ignites with red fire, and he can't help but notice she looks awfully red too. Unnaturally red. Her face is suddenly /awful/, torn up to pieces and strings and tendons, fleshy gums hold broken teeth, and her eyes are stone cold, and dead. Her arms are stripped of skin in some areas, and the rest of it wriggles like something alive is beneath it. Then it's gone, and she's a beautiful dark duchess again.

Crowley doesn't say a word about it, though he does say, “Where's my drop of blood, sister?” 

“You'll get it, Crowley dear, just a moment now. Be quiet…” Petra throws her head back, wind swooping in from nowhere, rattling the gate, and whipping her hair and dress around. It howls, drowning out almost everything except her shouting. Her hands shoot up to the heavens, and Crowley steps back, squinting. The ground quivers, and lighting flashes in the dark reaches above. 

The edge of the Pit shakes violently, groaning, then growing. The opening begins shrinking, rapidly. The circle rushed toward the center, leaving only a small nearly invisible hole left. 

Everything stops. 

And then thick, black smoke shoots out, streaming up, and mostly likely out of Hell. 

“Where are they going!?” The King yells out. 

“Those, your highness, are mine,” She faces him, smirking, “I have some vessels ready. You however, don't.”

“They don't need them.”

She raises a row, “Is that so? If you want them to betray you then sure, they don't them. Though… I think not, am I right?”

Crowley scowls, “Well then what do recommend? And why the hell didn't you warn me about this before?”

She shrugs, “You didn't ask.”

The demon bares his teeth, then struts to the door. He barks a few orders down the hallway, then comes back to Petra, “I got some empty meatsuits lying about.”

“Excellent, now so those,” She points and the swirling tornado of demon smoke at the center of the pit, “Those are yours. There are five-hundred in there. As long as the meatsuits they inhabit originally are in Hell, they will be at your command. So when you want more demons, you need more bodies.”

She waves a hand, sending a group of demon spirits whirling away, and out the gate past the two reluctant allies. Gasps are audible from down the hall as the children of Hell awake for the first time.

“Crowley dear, if you ever need more, you can find me at this number,” Petra – long black hair sparkling, red eyes glowing – hands him a slip of paper. 

He takes it, glances down at the paper, then back up in bewilderment, “That's it?”

“Yes that's it. What did you expect?”

“Since when do you have a phone? And aren't you going to Purgatory to get your siblings out?”

“That's a number to my… /Secretary/, if you will. And no, I have a few things to do before I can skip into Purgatory,” She says, flapping a hand as if to dismiss her words. 

“How did you it?”

She smiles. Kind of.

“/I lied/.”

Crowley stares, then, hands grab him from behind, and everything goes black.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The first thing Cas notices about the room he is laying in is that it's very empty. Or at least, it's very empty in the sense that there are no other people in it, however there are many books stacked on the table nearby, and a number of weapons mounted on the wall behind him. The bed is soft, and he sits up gingerly feeling injuries covering his body head to toe. Upon closer inspection it turns out he doesn't have any injuries and instead there are only small bruises and a few scrapes – nothing to worry about. It's strange though, he's never taken much notice of minimal batterings such as this. His head spins a bit, he recalls nothing of how or why he got here, though if he had to guess he'd venture that the Winchesters had something to do with it, they always seem to. For a moment he wonders what the world was like without them, he thinks that it was probably not much of a world. Overrun by demons and monsters, until the Winchester family stepped in and took away some of the darkness threatening others’ lives. 

His thoughts are moving slowly, like wading through water but with your feet buried in the sand. He surveys the bedroom again, it was familiar in the way another person's coat is familiar. Like, when you take it and wrap it around yourself and you can smell them or their house, or perhaps some perfume or cigarette smoke, but no matter what you can tell it their's simply because it /is/. It's Dean room, Castiel knows that not because he's been inside before, but because if he was given a choice between three million variations of a potential bedroom this one would be the only that had everything he would imagine would be inside. The guns and books – yes, though also the coat hooks in the corner with Dean's father's coat, and then the bulletin board hung on the right wall pinned full of old photographs. Not to mention the dresser that has half-open drawers and few belts slung across the drawer-knobs. There's not a closet, which ironically makes a massive amount of sense considering Dean's whole life has been filled with monsters, so why should he have the one place they are most rumoured to hide in his own bedroom?

Cas stands up, and after a long moment of rest, shuffles to the doorway and peeks outside. The hallway is empty. He considers calling out for the Winchesters, deciding against in fear of waking someone up, he doesn't want to be a rude house guest. He glances back in the room, suddenly very puzzled about as to why he was in there. Cas goes left down the hall, and he notices he has only socks on. He doesn't think much of it, but then he has a minor freak out when he realises his trenchcoat is gone. He's grown fond of the old thing, and something was hiding in it’s pocket that he prays didn't fall into the wrong hands. He hopes Sam or Dean has it. 

He goes down a few steps, passing through the kitchen, then out the other side into the main room. The dark wood tables sit in the center, the walls partially covered in shelves full of trinkets and dusty encyclopaedias of creatures and magic. He occasionally comes in here and runs a finger along the spines to clean them, and to preserve the covers and pages from any further decay. He does this now, nearly sneezing on the plumes of dust that come up. Cas has endlessly admired the humans’ technique of preserving information and records of the past. As a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, he's never had a use for books, everything he's ever learned is stored away like index cards in neatly labeled filing cabinets inside his brain. Although, if he's ever been curious about books, it's not for the informative ones. He'd like to try, if granted the opportunity, to read a /fictional/ novel. To see how humans have reimagined the universe and then perhaps scrutinise their methods, or if at all possible, just try and live somewhere else for a bit. /Be/ someone else. Be /something/ else. 

There's the sound of flapping wings behind him, and everything changes. 

Not the scenery, no, Cas is still in the bunker, but reality slaps him in the face as he comes to recognise the piece of himself that's missing – /his wings/. 

They are gone. Completely and utterly gone. He cannot begin to fathom how that happened, or why, or what cruel power ripped them from his shoulders, but they are gone. A deep, throbbing uncertainty floods savagely through his veins and rocks him hard like a ship out at sea. He is //terrified//. Not for his life or the future or for anyone else, just good ol’ label-on-the-breadbox //terrified//. He would scream if he knew how or could; his throat aches and he can't seem to swallow properly. He licks his lips, eyes shut, kneeling on the floor. Castiel takes deep, sucking breaths that tickles his ribs and send needles pricking his lungs. The air is freezing, or maybe he's just unused to the sensation of breathing, he can't tell. 

He remembers the sound of wings then, and chances a swift look up. The fear, comes to crashing halt as a pair of silky blue eyes stare at him. Glittering white teeth form a smile as soft, steady hands help Cas up. 

“Hey there Cassie, long time.”

“Balthazar?” Cas manages to choke out. 

“Yes, yes, it's me. Hey, you alright?”

“I… I seem to be alive,” Cas doesn't want to say he's unharmed, or ‘all in one piece’ because he is most definitely not. 

“Well yes I would say so, you need anything?”

Balthazar’s hand is on his shoulder, and the other lingers on his wrist. Balth grins again, as if he can't help it, “You seem just dandy, eh? You're smilin’ an everything!” He spins away, and glass appearing in his fingers as he smiles and gestures for Cas to sit on couch that he somehow conjured up, “Sit, sit! Now I haven't got all day, but I always have time to catch up with an old friend… We are still friends… Aren't we?” 

The angel’s cocky attitude evaporates, and his sit down across from Cas almost nervously. 

“Balthazar… Aren't you… Dead?”

“Of course, Cassie,” Balth assures softly, leaning forward enough so one hand can reach Cas’s curls and move aside a stray hair, “but doesn't it make you happy to see me alive?”

Cas feels it then, the rushing warmth of gratitude and relief and safety that sooths him into a blissful state. He does feel //happy//. 

Then, as quickly as he came, Balthazar is gone. Leaving Cas on floor once more and he can't find it in himself to move. He's not sure what's happening or why, but he has no strength left to ask questions. 

He's sucking on air, faster and faster, like he thinks he can just make the world disappear, and stop thinking, if he does it fast enough. Cas’s fists are clenching, and he can't feel his body or really even control it. He thinks he's hyperventilating, but he's not sure. He wishes more than anything that it would stop. There's pounding in his brain, and a constant chatter in his ears that's screams the room is too small. He wants to stop existing. He wants to stop feeling and /being/, and desperately wishes to dissolve into nothing. The breathing sort of blocks out the nasty thoughts and ideas that crowd his mind, but at the same time they sneak in and flash in his face – snickers of cruel jokes and faces showing him dark days – making him breathe faster. If he could cry he would. He's trembling and choking like one might of they were sobbing, but no tears slip out and he needs it all to end. Castiel is //panicking//. 

Then, with a shudder, that pain alleviates and is at last replaced with tears. Cas finds himself wrapped in a blanket on a soft chair, the room dark and candles lit on nearby surfaces. He lets the stream of salty wet pour down his face, it's nice in a weird way. He lets out everything, all the hurt and the guilt and the fear. /Anything/, is better than what he last experienced. He releases all his pent up energy, cuddling the quilt and wiping his eyes as déjà vu strikes. He sniffles, his nose running and kinda gross. A box of tissues appears at his side and he blows his nose, thankful for the soft papers. Cas feels //sad//, but he knows that's //okay//. 

Nothing drastic changes next, which is a small comfort. The candles go out and lights flip on, and in front of him is a gigantic one-way window. He looks through to see himself, or… Someone who looks like him, standing next to Dean. Dean seems somewhat worried, almost afraid as /not-Cas/ shockingly surges forward and kisses him. Dean seems to be forced into it, like he he doesn't want to but /has to/. Castiel can't do anything but watch as something like a horde of rhinos stamps and roars in his chest. Dean shoves not-Cas away, and that Cas goes on to try and force him to continue. 

Castiel sits forward on his small sofa, glaring and clenching his jaw, he feels //protective// and, as bile rises in his throat, //jealous//.

The bile becomes more than just bile as he lurches forward, hands slamming into something cold and hard, and starts puking into a toilet. It reeks and fills his mouth with a vile, sour coating. He's shaking again, and coughing horribly. The coughs throb in his skull, bending him uncomfortably and hitting his back squarely, drying out his chest and lungs. His innards are a vast wasteland with a skyrocketing temperature as a fever takes over his body. He lays back in some random, conjured-up bathroom stall and wraps his arms around his middle, feeling like death itself. Feeling //sick//. 

The illness gradually, thankfully, leaves. He's almost irritated that it was even there, like his immune system should have fought it off or something. But he’s an Angel, immune systems don't matter. Although, he's not an Angel anymore, is he? Why is that exactly? Cas gets up, using the wall as support. The sink and the toilet disappear, leaving him in a room with just a single mirror. It has an eerie, sort of discoloured brown tinge that sets everything's colour a shade off. It deepens the circles around Cas’s eyes, making him look exhausted and old. Then, he begins aging in the mirror. His skin wrinkles, his hair lengthens, and his hair begins to fade to grey. It’s all very unsettling. /Angels aren't meant to age/, a selfish part of him screeches, displeased with the face before him. /Why does it matter/? Another, wiser voice retorts, and Cas’s features return to normal. He blinks, and for a second, just a second, it hits him that none of this is actually real. Then, the thought disappears as the back wall slams into him from behind and pushes him closer to the reflective object, as though the room itself were pissed he wasn't upset by himself aging. 

In the mirror he spots Dean again, sitting on the trunk of the Impala, half drunk, a beer in hand. He's shouting at the sky, at the stars, saying “/Okay! I give up! You can have me. Do what you need with me/!”

Castiel snarls, infuriated by the sight. He didn't rebel against Heaven for this! Why would he turn his back on his whole family just to have Dean go crawling back to them! The hunter keeps shouting, “/Take me, Michael! I'll be your vessel. Destroy the friggin’ monsters on the planet but don't you dare harm a hair on my brother's head/.”

Cas is //mad//, really mad, and has the urge to smack the man until he sees reason. Cas attempts to do just that, but remembers too late that it is only but a mirror, not a gateway. The reflective glass shatters, falling to the ground in a pile. The wall behind him goes away, and the wall in front of him too, disintegrates into nothing. 

For a long while, there is just darkness. 

He hears screams. 

Twisting, relentless torture, crude whips and rusted tools, thousands of instruments perfected for pain. He can feel the pits of Hell writhing around him, even if he can't see them. Then he's running down an endless passageway, he huffs and stumbles and brushes the walls, but he never stops. A flickering light is far, far ahead, dancing in space, begging to be caught. He runs harder, slipping through darkness, hot and cold air slapping at his face. He no longer is worried or distraught. He's free of sickness and fear and anger, only something shimmering is within him now. The light is at last nearing, and as he closes in on it he places the familiar glow. It's a soul, the soul of the Righteous Man – it's Dean's. Cas sighs, at ease in the dark. He feels //hope//. 

He touches the golden light that turns through the air like a flame, and it roars a bit, starting to spread around Cas and shutting out the blackness. It engulfs him entirely, and Cas lets it, he feels //trust//. 

 

It's silent, the blinding light still carrying him, then it loosens, and he senses it leave entirely. Cas keeps his eyes shut, not wanting to know what happens next, until he hears singing. 

“And even as I wander I'm keeping you in sight, you're a candle in the window on a cold, dark winter's night…”

Cas blinks his lids open, and sees a ceiling. He's confused at first, but then it dawns on him. /He's woken up/. He shuts his eyes again. 

The voice draws nearer, scratchy and a bit off tune, but relaxing and lovely all the same, “And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might…”

The persons clears their throat, and the bed pushes down from their weight as they sit on the edge, “Hey Cas,” They murmur softly, “Any time you wanna get up buddy, would be great. I'm glad you're here man, but I need my bed.”

It's Dean. Oh, Cas doesn't know what to do. He's awake, yes, but also so very, very tired. A radio is playing at low volume, and Dean keeps humming along, “And I can't fight this feeling anymore, I've forgotten what I started fighting for…” He trails off, listening to the song a moment, “It's time to bring this ship into the shore, and throw away the oars, forever…”

Something's laughing and crying inside Cas. It's kind of cackling and insane, though also wonderful and welcoming. A warm bloom of bees flutters about his stomach, and honey heavies his chest, making it ache. He imagines that he's standing on a cliff, a vast ocean of water waiting below him, his bare toes curled along the edge of the rocks. A heavy wind batters his sides, and a soulful mist sprays his face with salty sea air randomly. He enjoys it, and peers back at the watery depths. Whatever he's feeling, as he lies there, unmoving, is something quite specific, though at the same time infinitely complicated. 

“Cause I can't fight this feeling anymore, I've forgotten what I started fighting for…” 

There is this pivotal moment between jumping off a cliff and staying grounded that can either start an adventure or end one. That point is when your lifting off the ground, though not quite in the air, that second when it is your /absolute last chance to not jump/. That's how he feels, he is teetering on the edge of something unexpected and potentially great, but he has to decide if he ought to leap out or not. The safety of the bay below is a net that will catch you when you fall, but the danger of that is that perhaps it's not deep enough to save you. He could jump and think it'll all be fine but when he breaks the water's surface he slams into rock bottom and shatters. Or, it is deep enough and it holds him like a delicate blanket, protecting him. Cas can't know until he tries, no one can. 

A hand skims along Cas’s upturned palm, caressing it, “And if I have to crawl upon the floor, come crashing through your door…”

Some folks’ fall takes a long time, it's not a few seconds until they hit the ocean, it's weeks or months or years or forever, but they do hit it. In the most unfortunate cases, by the time the person reaches the bottom the entire sea had dried up. And so they hit the bottom, nothing to break the fall, and they splinter and break apart and likely are never quite whole again. Castiel is afraid of that, not the same afraid as in his nightmare, but afraid in the way that he might be leaping into an ocean that isn't actually there waiting for him. What if he's alone in this?

The song playing in the background hits its final peak, and Dean breathes out the rest of the lyrics in a rush, “Baby, I can't fight this feeling anymore…”

Cas gives himself until the final note fades into the quiet, and shifts his body just a fraction. Dean noticeably tenses, but stays seated and puts a comforting hand on his arm, just above the elbow, “Cas?”

Castiel, opens his eyes for real, and leans up a tad, “Dean.”

“Hey, you were out pretty good. Hope you slept alright…” Dean gives him some space, letting go and glances bashfully away as Cas sits up, not bothering to adjust the pillows. The Winchester faces him again, pulling a strange face.

“What?” Cas asks, frowning.

“Nothing… I just, I just…”

“You just what?”

Dean puffs out some air, his fingers somehow toying with Cas’s sleeve, “I was afraid you weren't going to wake up. And it woulda been my fault…”

“How on earth would it have been your fault? Naomi is the one that did this to me,” Cas retorts, recalling all the events of the part night, “There was nothing anyone could have done,” Cas glared pointedly, sitting up even more and leaning forward to grip Dean's forearm, “What I was going to try and do, what I /was/ doing, was crazy and not at all safe. They were bound to find out sooner or later if I betrayed them. I never anticipated what lengths they'd go to…”

“What did they do to you, Cas?” Dean queries cautiously. The room is suddenly very small, the foot separating them very intimate. 

“They took my wings,” Cas states plainly, practically in disinterest. 

Dean’s mouth opens, “I'm so sorry… I – how is that even possible?”

“It's not. I mean, I didn't think it was. They somehow left my grace in me, but without my wings, it hardly even matters,” Cas makes a face, “I'm useless this way.”

“Hey now,” Dean interjects without hesitation. He can't stop staring at Cas’s lips and eyes, he can tell that they have changed. There isn't a looming, invisible presence in the room like he's used to with the angel. Can he even be called that anymore? “Cas, just ‘cus you don't have your wings doesn't mean you're no good. Plenty of birds can't fly and they get on just fine,” He winces at his own comparison, Cas just smiles small, “I know the last time we talked was rough, and I'm sorry about what you saw before that –”

Cas frowns, “With the trickster?”

Dean glances away, shifting awkwardly, still very close to Cas. He smells different, but Dean wonders if maybe this is the way they've always smelt. He's unsure why, but he's hyperaware of their every move and breath, and he himself is struggling to form words. He knows why. He's known why a long time. 

“Yes. With, that… I was, that was all sorts of messed up.”

“Why did it turn into me?” Cas asks, licking his lips. 

Dean's eyes widen, “I don't know. I think it knew about you somehow, and thought…”

“Thought what? It would scare you?”

Dean repeats, “Scare me?”

Cas fumbles with a bit of blanket, unable to meet Dean’s gaze, “Yes, er, well not scare you. That's not the right word. But it would probably, um, humiliate you, I would think.”

Dean's composure melts, his eyes sadden, his whole face loosens and fills with empathy. Why would Cas think that? He can't think of the right words to say – how does one console a fallen Angel? Cas may believe that he is worth nothing this way, or that he is worth nothing to Dean, yet that is so entirely untrue. Dean wants to yell. Yelling, though, that would hurt Cas more, no matter what Dean was trying to say. Maybe… Maybe he couldn't ever think up the right words, but with the door shut, and a new song softly playing, he knew the right thing he could /do/. 

The atmospheric pressure builds, until Cas is about to lay back down, when Dean's other fingers rise up to the fallen’s forehead, pushing aside hair, and cupping along the back of Cas’s neck.

And then Cas is running and jumping off that damned cliff because he sees the ocean swelling and rising below him, pushing and crashing and promising to catch him, and he’s off and he's falling…

Dean moves slowly because any faster and he won't do it. He's not doing it for any reason other than to show the guy that he isn't a burden. That Dean's not ashamed or disgusted to have been kissing their clone, to explain that he cares for them more than he can possibly describe – and in such quantity that this is the only way to make Cas understand. He's able to navigate his lips so they push against Castiel's. He is surprised by how eagerly and softly they push back, gentle too. Both of the two’s eyes are shut, each mind racing a mile-a-minute. It's soft and sweet with plenty of breaks. After a few kisses Dean braves up a bit, and puts his other hand on Cas’s neck, deepening the kiss and forcing Cas to move closer, and he does. They breathe in the same pattern, both ready to turns heads and try another way at the same time, sinking into a smoother rhythm than that of a pianist. Cas has a hand on Dean's knee, the other pulling on his flannel shirt. 

Cas. Feels. 

//Loved//.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~  
> For those of you caught up with S11, I wrote a short fix-it fic of the most recent episode. It basically just makes more Dean/Cas happening and implies bisexual!Dean.  
> ~  
> Bye! Hope your excited to see where this kiss leads...


	12. AUTHOR'S NOTE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No this is not a chapter update, though I do have some things to share.

Hey there dudes. 

So, as you may or may not have guessed based on my significant lack of posting updates, and continually promising to do so more, this fic has come to an unfortunately incomplete end.

I think I knew the second I started writing this that I wouldn't be able to finish. I have a nasty habit of beginning huge plot-filled stories and then abandoning them. However, I would like to point out that this was the fisrt ever fanfic I tried my hand at. I think this was a good place to start, because I figured out how I see these characters in my own head, and I learned how I want to generally portray them. 

Now I have five other fics, four of which are complete and one that is a work and progress. And I will continue to write more and get better. (FYI, those fics actually have italics and whatever. I wrote then directly on Ao3 so I didn't have that struggle.)

Regarding this story, I do know what was going to happen next, and I know vaguely how it was supposed to end. If I told you I may come back to it one day, well, that would be a lie because I'm not going too. 

Below I'm going to leave my list of plot points I wanted in this story (along with other notes), and if you choose to read it you'll see how I how what I wrote differed from my plan. You'll also see things in the list I didn't put down, or I altered dramatically. 

If you don't want to know what had been planned to happen, don't read anymore! 

A HUGE THANK YOU to all of you who read this and read my fic! I appreciate your time so much because I began to believe I could actually write fanfiction, and not just read it. 

—

MY PLOT NOTES:

-Ghosts are rising and causing suicides*  
-Charlie returns as a ghost to haunt Dean*  
-Dean recalls more than just the memory of her death; also the deaths of dozens of others he's been unable to save; this leads to him feeling like trash, nearly to suicide, Cas tries to stop him, but only Sam has the words for it*  
-The souls of the people dying and that of the ghosts go to Hell, there they are being transformed incredibly quickly into demons; most of which are new stronger Knights of Hell; they have the ability to smite Angels and teleport (can regular demons do that?)  
-Dean and Cas's soul & grace are connected; Cas can sense all of Dean's emotions; this causes him to be considerably more human, which he must hide from the Angels or else they would force him to fix it and Dean could be killed and Castiel could be cast out for not being a pure angel; Cas placed part of his grace in Dean to heal him, and to block a significant amount of Hell from his memories; Dean doesn't know about any of this-he thinks Cas can just read anyone's feelings if he wants; Cas truly began to feel the humanness of the soul when he killed Zachariah*  
-Cas is part of an Elite Squad of angels who protect and create the Heaven's for souls*  
-Cas has noticed tiny scars in the fabric of Heaven through which souls are being forced out  
Sam & Dean believe a spell is at work; perhaps some sort of powerful witch: when this trail leads no where they consider other options  
-The Necromancer approaches Crowley to make an agreement*  
Quite suddenly the random suicides and ghosts stop; soon after demon omens are popping up everywhere* (need to stop in whole country still though)  
Sam and Dean can't find any specific answers so they go on a case involving a trickster (a real legit one), there's a pink panther theme with the colour pink changing from kill to kill; it's killing stupid people who've behaved like assholes; the trickster creates a man named Drew (whom Dean nearly slept with a year and a half ago), Drew keeps telling Dean that they should get together and go all the way, and kisses him, Sam doesn't witness this but is extremely perplexed about how and who the man was that nearly got Dean killed; they track down the Trickster at a nearby candy shop in the middle of the night and kill him (they're in Vegas); Drew shows up and seduces Dean — is really just one of the Trickster's, uh, tricks.

-Dean and Sam have a big conversation about Drew*  
-The night after they complete that case Cas comes clean with Dean about their Grace & Soul thing*  
-Cas is forced to stay in Heaven; this is because if he goes on earth too often he'll realise something is wrong with Heaven and he'll question his orders*  
-An ancient Necromancer (the Nex) is behind it all; they are posing as an angel named Naomi who had been calling the shots since Zachariah and Uriel were killed (other angels who betrayed God while the seals were being broken were locked up or killed if necessary)  
-A demon case shows up (Actually demons just keep attacking the brothers & human-Angel) Dean is extremely weary about it because of Sam's past (they stopped the apocalypse four months ago; but Dean's worried Sam'll go back to his old ways)  
-Big conversation between the Bros  
-A different angel named Ambriel; comes to assist Dean and Sam: he claims to be there because Castiel asked him to be; he is truly just a spy for the Nex; he proves to Dean he's there to help by telling him he knows about the soul & grace thing  
-The Nex approaches Crowley, and offers a way to breach a hole in Hell to allow more demons to pass onto the earth, as well as create demons faster (and give Crowley some powers?), in exchange for Crowley helping him open up Purgatory  
-Cas is able to escape from Heaven briefly and informs the brothers that the ghosts weren't being pulled out of Heaven, but rather pushed out by (perhaps) an angel; and when the two mention Ambriel, Castiel tells them that he wasn't asked by Cas to help them, and that Ambriel had always been untrustworthy; they realise Amb was leading them in wrong direction the entire time (Amb hid some important books and files on the Necromancer so that the boys couldn't learn how to defeat the Nex)  
-Castiel has learned too much truth and so he is cast from Heaven by Naimi and the brain-washed Angels; they tie his wings so he cannot return to Heaven  
-They begin getting ambushed by demons left & right, they don't understand why; but it forces team free will into hiding in the bunker for a few weeks, and only going out for very small & quick cases (ghosts, cursed objects, etc.); during this time lots of Destielness (Bowling! Cas reading & coffee! Dish-dancing!)  
Dean tells Sam about the grace & soul thing; Big conversation between the bros  
-During one particular attack, a demon forces Sam to drink her blood; Captain Jack happens to be at the scene and shoots a demon with salt to save Dean, Jack doesn't know what the demons are actually; Sam enjoys the blood a lot and goes a bit wild trying to drink her blood, and then that if a dead demon on the floor; Dean finds and rescues Sammy; Cas and him work together to help Sam recover; brother bonding time  
-Crowley begins to realise that despite being King Of Hell the Knights are not obedient to him but to the Nex; he contacts the boys and asks for assistance on discovering a way to stop them  
Bobby joins the trio at the bunker and discovers info about the First Blade and how it can kill demons; Sam, Bobby & Cas want to try and search for it single-handedly; -Dean grows impatient and goes to Crowley behind their backs to ask for his help  
-Hannah; she followed orders perfectly in Heaven and was never brain-washed, but she began having doubts about Naomi and so she found Cas in a coffee shop to tell him what she knows; Naomi is searching for keys to something and Ambriel is going to *insert place* to look for the last one; Cas informs Dean and Sam and they make preparations to capture Ambriel  
-Ambriel is captured, Dean remembers his methods for Alastair and tortures him  
-Crowley finds the First Blade; he tells Dean that it's useless without the Mark of Cain—and so begins another search; Cas finds out and tells Dean how idiotic the plan is and that receiving the Mark has some dangerous side-effects; Dean ignores him and gets the Mark; Cas and him argue ("I rebelled against heaven. And I did it—all of it—for you!")  
-With the blade Dean is able to figure more info from Ambriel; he convinces Sam to let Crowley help. From Ambriel the learn that the keys unlock the barrier between Purgatory and earth, the plan is to make heaven and purgatory into one singular space; a new sort of apocalypse; The key -Amb was looking for was an ancient magical sword called Thuận Thiên  
-Sam & Dean know they must find the last key before Naomi can get to it  
-Bobby researches that the swords power was so great it made the owner immortal, until a rebellious present snapped it in two and sent the handle and the blade far away from one another; Bobby finds that the last time the handle was seen was in 1955 at a relic silent auction in a very rich establishment  
-Hannah and her Angels cook up enough magic to send TFW back in time to retrieve it before it's stolen; Dean and Cas dance (check!notes)  
-{Dean's won't tell Sam what happened in his dream, but Sam can see Dean's really upset about it}; So upset, in fact, that he takes off to work with Crowley — hunting down especially problematic Knights leaving Cas, Sam and Bobby to find the last key and a way to kill the Nex; one night a couple of weeks later:   
Crowley contacts Dean and whisks him away to help kill some Knights; on one of these trips a demon let's slip the name 'Necromancer', so then Dean knows what their up against; Bobby searches through tons of books and papers but can't find anything on the Nex or how to kill it; later finds the ashes of what Ambriel burned and a book that was enchanted so it would be indestructible  
-Cas, Sam & Dean go hunt down another group of Knights whom the suspect to be getting close to part of the last key; the demons got ahold of the grip of the sword but still need the blade; Cas's vessel is killed but he escapes, and is trapped between two worlds because he can't return to Heaven; one of the Knights comments "Idiot angel, shouldn't of let yourself get killed, now nothing stands in the way of the Nex."  
-TFW & Bobby search for ways to heal Cas's vessel and to call Castiel back into his form; Sam and Dean find a locating spell for the blade of the sword: it leads them to Hudson Bay in Canada; this poses a problem as they don't have legal passports and need to carry a ton of weapons with them; this urges them to get Cas back and fix his wings asap  
They're able to cure the vessel, and find a spell to bring Cas back  
Crowley offers to help with the blade situation: but TFW do not trust him enough for that and instead set him the task for retrieving the handle from the Knights  
-Cas tells them that perhaps if they can bring his wings into the mortal world, they can be healed and untied because they'll be out of reach of Naomi; his wings are brought out and Dean is incredibly attracted to them;     Stargazing?!?!?  
-Ambriel lets the human inside the vessel take over but doesn't leave the body; he's kind of terrified and regretful; he wants to go home but Sam and Dean both know that's a bad idea  
With Cas's wings healed they push them back to sub reality; Hannah descends permanently from Heaven with few other Angels who've escaped brainwashing; they send Ambriel with them to be watched over while TFW prepare to go to Canada  
-They leave, Bobby is left behind; a weekend with Bobby as he instructs other hunters and researches Purgatory; he finds the book Ambriel had tried to burn, but it was enchanted so it couldn't be damaged; the book is in a different language  
-While retrieving the blade, some regular demons catch up with them, Dean fights them off — the Mark begins to take a firmer hold; Sam and Cas get the blade, they find Dean by the dead demons more torn up them they should be; Sam expresses his worries to Cas, who agrees  
-Naomi themself shows up; they use their power to again cripples Castiel's wings and takes the blade from Sam; they place the handle (Crowley never got it) and the blade together to create the final key to Purgatory; they disappear before TFW can do anything to stop her  
-They go back to a hotel, Dean takes care of Cas; Sam calls Bobby who tells him about the book and they discuss how to get home; TFW stays in Canada continuing the Family Business (Cas: "Dean. There's something I've... Been meaning to tell you. I love you.")  
-On a vamp case Dean gets out of control and kills two curable people ("Tell me you had to do this Dean!"~Sam); Cas is very weak so didn't help; Sam and Dean big talk about the Mark  
-Bobby has a breakthrough in translating the book; two beings of star-crossed love — one an offspring of Heaven and the other a Warrior of Hell — must come together as one to defeat the Necromancer, purifying the Earth to its original state; meaning Cas and Dean obviously: but cus Cas is dead and Dean's human, they don't realise this; Sam's able to figure it out when he learns what the Mark could do to Dean from Hannah; Who was told by the vessel of Ambriel; Hannah offers to take the trio home and they return to the bunker; Sam tells Bobby but they agree not to tell Dean just in case  
-Dean overhears one of their convos about it; the Mark is blinding him slightly making him determined to fix the earth; he talks to Crowley; Hannah takes Cas to the small army of angels  
-Ambriel returns deceiving the Angels shortly before Cas realises; Amb escapes and goes back to the Nex; they unlock the barrier between Purgatory and Earth (humans with open minds can see the change clearly, especially kids & teens, many adults a religious people can't, however if it's pointed out they then become aware of it)  
-Dean is contemplating becoming a demon heavily, and scampers off in his own for a werewolf case; -Sam catches up to him, they talk and Dean admits his thoughts; then as they drive home the world around them flickers and shifts, everything changing, as Purgatory and Earth entirely become one  
-Cas and Dean are brought together when the bunker is penetrated by the Nex and a number of creatures at their command; they are forced to completely shut the place down in order to keep the knowledge safe; -Bobby and Sam and Dean retreat to Angels hideout by invite of Hannah and Cas  
-Dean and Cas talk about how they could save the Earth  
-The Nex swoops down and ties all of the Angels wings, except for a few who agree to go back to Heaven  
-Deanmon (check!notes)

-Dean elopes with Crowley to live in his Kingdom of normal demons, they're hunting down Knights viciously, Dean killing them all; ----Sam & Cas don't know where he is but they can guess, and frankly they can't do much to fix anything because the entire world's gone to shit  
-The Angels are searching for a way to return to Heaven (all their wings are tied) and how to help the Angels get free of their spell; though they know Cas & Dean would work  
-Sam catches wind of a ton of demon omens in the next city over; their Dean and Crowley and other demons have congregated in the penthouse of a skyscraper and are chillingly watching the world crumble to pieces, confident that they can't be hurt or hunted; Sam goes to investigate with Bobby  
-Dean comes across the two by chance in a bar; they don't see him so he decides to just go plop down at their table; shock and confusion happen (they still don't know for sure if he's a demon) with a blink of his eyes he shows them that he is ("So, now what? Drag me out of here, tie me up, lock me in the dungeon and kill me? What's next?") Dean up and leaves the second they suggest him talking to Cas and figuring out to cure the planet  
-Dean says toodaloo to Crowley; but stays in the city; the Angels find that if they can get the brain-washed ones on earth help them (putting the Angels in a room warded against psychic connections); they make plans to capture some — Cas & Hannah in the lead; Sam and Bobby track Dean, they're planning on catching him and then going from there; Crowley offers to help  
-Dean meets Benny?

—

As you can see I didn't even finish writing the plot list, but that's okay. I'm planning on taking the whole think apart and using chunks and pieces of it in others fics. 

Anyway, I think that's it.

Thank you again to everyone that's read this. I really do appreciate it. 

Bye now.

                   :)


End file.
